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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 












ITALY 


A STEREOSCOPIC TOUR 


Conducted by 

Frank Gardner Moore, Ph.D. 

o 



H. C. WHITE CO. 

North Bennington, Vermont, U. S. A. 
1903 




THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

1 wo Copies Received 

SEP 21 1903 

.Copyright Entry 

W c 3 

CLASS CU XXc. No 

6 

COPY 8. 


Copyright 1908 
by H. C. WHITE CO. 
(Entered at Stationers’ Hall) 
All rights reserved 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 


PAGES 


Publishers’ Note. 9 

Introduction— On Seeing With Both Eyes. 11 

The History of Italy... 19 


ITINERARY 

NAPLES. 35-51 

1. Bird’s-eye View of Naples and Vesuvius. 

2. Washday, a House in the Old Town. 

3. The Lazzaroni. 

4. A Street Macaroni Restaurant. 

5. A Narrow Street in Naples. 

6. The Farnese Hercules, National Museum. 

7. The Farnese Bull, National Museum. 


VESUVIUS. 52-57 

8. The Sea of Lava at the Base of Vesuvius. 

9. On the Road to Vesuvius. 

10. The Crater of Vesuvius. 


3 









TABLE OF CONTENTS 


PAGES 

POMPEII. 57-74 

11. The Forum of Pompeii, and Vesuvius. 

12. The Street of Fortune. 

13. The Street of Tombs. 

14. House of the Vettii. 

15. The Amphitheatre. 

16. Casts of the Victims. 

PiESTUM.74-76 

17. Temple of Neptune, 


SORRENTO PENINSULA..., 76-85 

18. The Cappuccini, Amalfi. 

19. Amalfi, from the Cappuccini. 

20. An Old Convent near Amalfi. 

ROME*. 86-223 

21. Temple of Saturn and the Forum. 

22. St. Peter's and the Vatican 

23. St. Peter's. 

24. The Nave of St. Peter’s. 

25. The Pieta of Michael Angelo. 

26. The Statue of St. Peter. 

27. The Confessio, or Holy of Holies. 

28. Sistine Chapel, Vatican Palace. 

29. The Vatican Library. 

30. The Gallery of Statues, Vatican Palace. 

31. The Laocoon, Vatican Museum. 

32. The Forum, General View from the Tower of the Capitol. 

33. Balustrades of the Rostra, and Arch of Septimus Severus. 

34. Basilica of Constantine. 

35. The Arch of Titus. 

36. The Forum from the East. 

37. The Colosseum from the West. 

♦The Roman views are divided into groups,—“A Day at St. Peter’s and 
Vatican,” etc. 


4 






TABLE OF CONTENTS 


38. Interior of the Colosseum. 

39. The Palatine from the Colosseum. 

40. The Arch of Constantine. 

41. The Forum from the Palatine. 

42. Michael Angelo’s Moses. 

43. Interior of St. John Lateran. 

44. Cemetery of the Cappuccini. 

45. The Pantheon. 

46. The Tiber, the Castle of St. Angelo, and St. Peter’s. 

47. Bridge and Castle of St. Angelo. 

48. Rome from the Dome of St. Peter’s. 

49. The Pope’s Gardens from the Dome of St. Peter’s. 

50. The Fountain of Trevi. 

51. Gallery of the Colonna Palace. 

52. Column and “Forum” of Trajan. 

53. The Dying Gaul, Capitoline Museum. 

54. The “Temple of Vesta.” 

55. The Tiber and the Island. 

56. Interior of St. Paul’s-outside-the-Walls. 

57. The Cloisters, St. PauPs-outside-the-Walls. 

58. The Baths of Caracalla. 

59. Gate of St. Sebastian, Appian Way. 

60. The Appian Way. 

61. Ruins of the Claudian Aqueduct. 

62. The Villa Doria-Pamphili. 

63. Rome from the Janiculum. 

PERUGIA. 

64. Perugia, from below. 

65. Palazzo del Municipio. 

FLORENCE. 

66. Giotto’s Tower and the Cathedral. 

67. Palazzo Vecchio and Piazza della Signoria. 

68. Loggia dei Lanzi. 

69. Corridor of the Uffizi Gallery. 

5 


PAGES 


223-228 


229-265 




TABLE OF CONTENTS 


70. Venus de* Medici, Uffizi Gallery. 

71. The Wrestlers, Uffizi Gallery. 

72. Ponte Vecchio and the Arno. 

73. Riccardi Palace. 

74. The Court of the Bargello. 

75. Tomb of Giuliano de’ Medici. 

76. Florence from San Miniato. 

PISA. 

77. The Leaning Tower. 

78. Baptistery, Cathedral and Leaning Tower. 

VENICE. 

79. Venice from the Island of S. Giorgio. 

80. Palace of the Doges and the Campanile. 

81. The Molo and Palace of the Doges. 

82. The Bridge of Sighs. 

83. The Church of San Marco. 

84. Interior of San Marco. 

85. Franchetti Palace and S. Maria della Salute. 

86. The Grand Canal, towards the Rialto. 

87. The Rialto. 

88. A Picturesque Canal. * 

89. Venice from the Campanile. 


VERONA. 

90. The Amphitheatre. 

91. Piazza delle Erbe. 


MILAN. 

92. The Cathedral. 

93. Pinnacles and Flying Buttresses of the Cathedral. 

6 


PAGES 


265-271 


272-303 


303-308 


308-315 






TABLE OF CONTENTS 


PAGES 

CERTOSA DI PAVIA. 315-318 

94. Fa 9 ade of the Certosa. 


LAGO MAGGIORE. 318-323 

95. Isola Bella and Pallanza. 

96. Lago Maggiore, the Western Shore. 


GENOA.. 323-335 

97. Genoa from an Old Palace Garden. 

98. The Campo Santo, a Corridor. 

99. The Public Washing—A Street Scene. 

100. Genoa from the Rosazza Gardens. 


7 





LIST OF MAPS 


Bound in separate booklet inserted in pocket on back of cover. 

No. 1. General Map of Italy. 

No. 2. Naples. 

No. 3. Pompeii. 

No. 4. Bay of Naples and Sorrento Peninsula. 

No. 5. General Map of Rome. 

No. 6. Roman Forum. 

No. 7. St. Peter's and the Vatican. 

No. 8. Environs of Rome. 

No. 9. Ancient Rome. 

No. 10. Florence. 

No. 11. Venice. 

No. 12. Genoa. 


8 



PUBLISHERS’ NOTE 

To accompany their series of one hundred carefully 
selected views of Italy, the publishers take pleasure in 
presenting a descriptive guide-book, written by Frank 
Gardner Moore, Ph.D., Associate Professor of Latin and 
of Roman Archeology in Dartmouth College, who has 
also contributed the Introduction, including an explana¬ 
tion of the stereoscopic effect, and a perspective view of 
Italian history. A series of twelve maps makes it pos¬ 
sible for any one who would enjoy the delights of an 
imaginary tour in Italy to follow the itinerary step by 
step. It will be seen that the maps of Rome, Naples, 
and the other cities, are crossed by red lines. These 
mark the line of sight from the position occupied by the 
camera to the centre of the field of vision. If, for 
example, the general view of Naples (No. 1) is before us, 
and we wish to make the best use of the map, the latter 
(map No. 2) should be placed upon a table, with the 
red line numbered one leading directly away from the 
user of the stereoscope. The stereograph of the corre¬ 
sponding number being now placed in the instrument, 
held in the same direction as the red line, it becomes 
possible to get one’s bearings with great accuracy, 
and to identify upon the map the various buildings and 
other objects of interest in the field of view. The limits 
to right and left are clearly indicated in the description. 
The sense of real presence before the scene is thus in¬ 
creased, as one is enabled to put himself on the precise 
spot chosen by the photographer, and to look in the 

9 


publishers’ note 


same direction. At the top of each page will be found 
the number of the appropriate .map, as also that of 
the stereograph itself, to facilitate cross-reference. The 
smallest amount of practice in using the stereoscope, 
the map, and the description together, will produce 
the happy illusion of an actual visit—whether for the 
first time or the tenth—to these famous scenes, under 
the personal direction of a conductor who has allowed 
himself this diversion in the hope of giving others a 
pleasure which, unlike the real tour, may be repeated 
at a moment’s notice, or handed on to others for their 
enjoyment and profit. 


10 


ON SEEING WITH BOTH EYES 

To see Italy,—could anything be simpler and easier? A com¬ 
fortable steamer, German, Italian, or Canadian, to Naples; an¬ 
other from Genoa, not less luxurious, to bring you home again. 
In the meantime good hotels, and railways at least tolerable, 
—nothing to do, but to keep your eyes open, and see all the 
things set down in the guide-book. And of these many are as 
familiar as possible from pictures brought home years ago by 
some traveled relative. Surely nothing could be so simple as 
to see a country under such conditions. The very slightest 
amount of attention and effort seems to be all that is required, 
to bring home an abundant store of clear and well-ordered 
memories. And yet brother John and cousin Mary, who have 
been, and profess to know, agree in saying that it will be years 
before they wish to see any more sights; that they never worked 
so hard in their lives. If questioned they will admit that they 
seldom rose before nine o’clock, that they drove everywhere, 
and never spent more than an hour at a time in a gallery; that 
they saw nothing that was not starred in their Baedekers; and 
came home to their hotel, after a day of racing about, thoroughly 
tired in body and confused in mind. And if they would confess 
the whole truth, they would tell you that at the dinner table, 
when asked what sights they had seen that afternoon, they some¬ 
times hesitated, and had to refresh one another’s memory. 
“ What did we see this afternoon? Was it the Lateran, or St. 
Peter’s ? It had something to do with the Pope anyway.” They 
do not usually forget things in this fashion, or claim that play is 
work. It was for rest and change that they went away; yet they 
claim to be worn out, and the change does not seem to have 
improved them. Is it a little affectation “made abroad,” and 
brought back to create an impression upon the stay-at-homes,— 
this fashionable form of laziness which appears to be an un¬ 
avoidable result of hasty travel? Are they so sure that they will 
go again some day, to see the things—such a long list of them 
which they calmly omitted on their recent tour? So they say, 

11 


ON SEEING WITH BOTH EYES 


but one cannot help having doubts. The contagion is still 
there, and a second attack of the malady might be even more 
serious. To one who has lived for years in the hope of seeing 
those very things, it is perfectly incomprehensible that any one 
could so soon lose his interest, and come home with the bare¬ 
faced confession: “ Yes, we ought to have seen this; and I don't 
know how we came to overlook that; but we were tired, and a 
hotel acquaintance told us they were not worth our trouble." 
The trouble of using two eyes, given us for no other purpose! 

Plainly the explanation is not to be found in the eyes alone. 
The feast was too bountiful. At first they gloated over the end¬ 
less variety so temptingly spread out before them. Then came 
a feeling of surfeit. It was not an affectation of delicate ap¬ 
petite. Even the strongest mental digestion could not dispose 
of all these varied impressions at once. It was not mere in¬ 
dolence, borrowed from half-hearted companions in travel. 
There was nothing to do but to select a few things, with such 
judgment as was possible under the circumstances, and let the 
rest go, in the hope that a few memories at least would be per¬ 
manent, and that time for reflection at home would at last bring 
order into a confused mind. 

Time to prepare in advance, time to think on the spot, might 
have given them the necessary perspective for their mental 
pictures. As it is, their impressions were much as if they had 
been looking with one eye—the other closed—and seeing every¬ 
thing projected upon a single plane, the nearer objects bigger 
than those more remote, but not standing out in clear contrast. 
For in the mind’s eye the impression received from without 
needs the correction of another faculty, viewing things from 
another standpoint. Reflection is the other eye of the mind. 
And if the things seen are to be understood and remembered, 
this second and inward eye is as necessary as is one of the out¬ 
ward eyes to the other in the simple act of vision. 

As for ordinary seeing, most of us have passed through the 
childish belief that Nature gave us two eyes as a mere pre¬ 
caution, to guard against an accident on the Fourth of July or 
in the baseball field. By and by we discover that the two eves 
do not see precisely the same things, that they are in fact two 
independent observers, occupying independent posts each 
reporting to the brain what it sees, leaving the mind to combine 
these slightly different pictures into one image. Taken separ- 

12 


ON SEEING WITH BOTH EYES 


ately, the right-eye picture occupies a different place from that 
produced by the left. The rapid closing of the alternate eyes 
shifts the view from side to side in a confusing fashion, and all 
objects near at hand move swiftly across a stationary back¬ 
ground. Looking out of the window with one eye closed we see 
the sticks of the window as fixed bars across the landscape; 
open the other eye, and the vertical sticks conceal nothing of 
what lies beyond; they seem to be not transparent, and yet 
deprived of their solid substance. The truth is, of course, that 
they obstruct the view of the right eye at one point, and that 
of the left at another, leaving the one eye free to see what is for 
the moment invisible to the other; and the mental picture is as 
complete as if there were no interruption. It is not so, however, 
with the horizontal sticks, which are a real obstruction. 

We have the reason, then, why objects in the foreground of 
any view seem to detach themselves from what is behind, and 
to stand out with an impression of reality which is usually lack¬ 
ing in pictures. The distant objects are practically the same, 
with whichever eye they are seen, but coming nearer, a tree, for 
example, shows the rounded form of its trunk, not merely by the 
light and shade, from which the mind might reason that it must 
have this form, in order to produce that effect, but by our con¬ 
sciousness that we actually see things behind the trunk. Hence 
the effect of relief, of things at their true distances from each 
other and from the eyes. Where vision alone is unable to de¬ 
cide, experience comes to our aid, and unconscious judgments 
enter into the impression of everything that we see. To such 
an extent is this true, that it requires a large gift of imagina¬ 
tion to see things as little children see them, as we saw them 
ourselves, before we had learned to associate things seen with 
what we had remembered, and to use past experiences as a help 
toward the explanation and understanding of what was before 
our eyes. But in all such judgments we are very dependent 
on the slight distance between the eyes. Just as in the naval 
warfare of recent times everything turns upon ingenious con¬ 
trivances for the determination of the range,—the exact distance 
from the enemy’s ship or fort, and as these inventions require 
two distinct points of observation, in different parts of the ship, 
so in the most ordinary and everyday seeing we rely completely 
upon our two independent observers, less than three inches 
apart, reporting to the mind their distinct impressions, there to 

13 


ON SEEING WITH BOTH EYES 


be combined into one picture, with its distances unconsciously 
measured and recorded by the hidden mechanism of our mental 
range-finder. 

When we look at an ordinary photograph we are really closing 
one eye, and looking with the other. For the common camera 
has but one lens,—a single eye. Here, for example, is a photo¬ 
graph of an old Greek temple in Sicily, standing upon a height. 
At one side is a venerable olive tree, and the foreground is over¬ 
grown with the cactus. It is a beautiful picture, cleverly taken, 
with every appearance, one would at first say, of absolute 
fidelity to Nature. In reality, however, this is not at all what 
the eyes of the photographer saw. This olive tree, with its 
gnarled trunk and gray foliage, did not altogether obstruct the 
view beyond, as it unquestionably does in the picture. And 
these cactus plants, as seen by two eyes, stood out in bold relief, 
and what is behind them was seen as clearly as what lies before. 
The ancient columns of the temple would have stood away from 
the wall behind and from the inner columns, giving one a dis¬ 
tinct impression of those dark spaces in the shadow. But in 
the one-eyed photograph we are left to place them in their true 
position by the purely mental act of inference from the way in 
which the shadows fall. With the right eye we should have 
seen a little more on the right side of each column. In the same 
way the left eye would have supplemented the sight of its com¬ 
panion in seeing a little more on its side of the column. And 
while this seems a small matter, it contributes very much to 
that sense of actual relief which we constantly have in the most 
ordinary use of our eyes, but which the common photograph 
cannot possibly give us. 

In spite of this obvious defect—and a very serious one it is— 
photographs of famous places and buildings, of sculptures and 
paintings, are sold in ever increasing quantities to travelers. 
And no country is so completely represented by them as Italy. 
Nor is there any country where they have attained a higher 
standard of excellence. As a business, photography has had 
an enormous increase even in the smaller cities in the last ten 
years. But the most beautiful of the great carbon prints labors 
under the fatal disadvantage of which we have been speaking. 
The largest camera is a kind of Cyclops, lacking the second eye, 
which alone would enable it to see things as we see them. Such 
photographs are therefore chiefly useful in enabling one who has 

14 


ON SEEING WITH BOTH EYES 


seen the subject of the picture to recall it to mind. Even with 
the help of a good memory he is not brought back into the 
presence of the original. And, unless it be a painting, no one 
else can possibly gain the same impression. It is a cold, lifeless 
thing, a record of what one eye saw. It can never produce an 
illusion of the actual scene. 

On the other hand the stereoscope was invented by Wheat¬ 
stone and Sir David Brewster to reproduce the two-eyed vision, 
with all its realism.* The camera is given two eyes, or lenses, 
carefully placed at the average distance between the human 
eyes. For every scene or subject there are thus two separate 
pictures, at first sight the same, or so nearly so that their differ¬ 
ences seem to be largely a matter of trimming the edges. 
Examined more closely they show obvious differences in every 
object in the foreground. It is evident that as the right eye 
sees more on the right side of an object than the left can, and 
conversely, so the right-hand lens has given to the plate impres¬ 
sions which are bound to vary from those received and trans¬ 
mitted by the left-hand lens. And, as in ordinary seeing, so 
in these companion pictures, anything in the foreground 
appears projected against one point in the background of the 
right-hand view, and against a different point, as seen in its 
companion. Thus, when the two independent pictures have 
been combined by the stereoscope into one, even a row of 
slender columns may prove little more of an obstacle than the 
upright sticks in the window. An example would be the beauti¬ 
ful view of the cloisters of St. Paul’s-outside-the-Walls, at Rome 
(No. 57). And there could not be a better illustration of the 
advantages of the stereograph. Close one eye, and you have 
the effect of the common photograph; the columns block the 
view of the garden, and the garden itself becomes flat ; we lose 
ail idea of three dimensions, except as the mind tries to supply 
the defects of vision. Open both eyes, and the sense of space 
and openness returns. It is as though we were actually present 
in that “studious cloister’s pale.” Everything appears on the 
scale of the objects themselves. We can estimate the actual 
dimensions without fear of being deceived. 

In this is one of the greatest advantages of the two-eyed 
picture. There is always something gained in having life in 

* For some further improvements we are indebted to Dr. Oliver Wendell 
Holmes. 


15 



ON SEEING WITH BOTH EYES 


the foreground, but the traditional expedient, so long employed 
in photography as a matter of necessity,—that is, of placing a 
man in some prominent place in the picture, in order to show the 
scale of things,—becomes entirely unnecessary in the stereoscopic 
photograph. We are as able to measure the scale of a building 
in a stereograph as if we were actually there before it. It is in 
the sense of actuality that the fascination of the stereoscope 
consists. We do not seem to be looking at mere pictures, but 
to be bodily transferred in an instant to the place itself. 

This feeling may be observed in vistas down the length of 
churches, or halls, as for example the nave of St. Peter’s (No. 24), 
or that of St. Paul’s (56), or the Gallery of Statues in the Vatican 
(30), or the Sistine Chapel (28), or the principal gallery of the 
Colonna Palace (51),—all at Rome; or the corridor of the Uffizi 
(69) at Florence, or in the nave of San Marco (84) at Venice, or 
in the Campo Santo (98) at Genoa. In any of these the im¬ 
pression of bodily presence is a marvel which does not diminish 
with acquaintance. But a street scene is equally real, as in 
Naples (Nos. 3-5), in Florence (66), in Venice (87-88). And 
for distant views, especially where a confusing mass occupies 
the foreground, no photograph can compare with the stereo¬ 
graph. Examples are the views of the Forum at Rome from 
various elevated points of view (Nos. 21, 36, 41), from the 
dome of St. Peter’s (48-49), of Naples from S. Martino (1), of 
Florence from S. Miniato (76), of Venice from the Campanile 
(89). Again in details close at hand, as in works of sculpture, 
the stereoscope proves its superiority (Nos. 6-7, 25-27, 31, 42, 
70-71, 75, 93). 

From such typical examples of the stereoscopic photograph 
it is clear that things are seen in their actual size. There is no 
need of casting about to find somewhere in the picture an object, 
or figure, by which the mind may judge of the scale of the whole, 
and thus know whether the appearance of spaciousness is real 
or deceptive. In a common photograph of a great interior, for 
example, the sense of size is not instantaneous, but due to sep¬ 
arate inferences from the scale of the furniture, from human 
figures, or from the repetition of features in the architectural 
scheme. A moment of study is required before we have found 
ourselves in such a photograph, and are quite safe from the dan¬ 
ger of deception, since a picture of a model might produce the 
same effect. But in looking through the stereoscope at a view 

16 


ON SEEING WITH BOTH EYES 


of the same interior, the first glance conveys an immediate im¬ 
pression of great size. An excellent instance would be the view 
in the nave of San Marco at Venice (No. 84). And what is 
true in that case is equally true in others; the real scale of 
things is just as apparent, for example, in a street scene. While 
it is never possible to separate sight entirely from thought, the 
effect of the stereoscope is to bring before us a series of objects 
in their natural sizes, as well as in their actual relations to each 
other. It eliminates, in other words, that impression of an in¬ 
tervening medium, which in the simple photograph seems to 
come between us and the things we would see,—a medium which 
it requires repeated acts of judgment to penetrate, and which 
even then may produce distortion and misunderstanding. 

In all these ways it is evident that a stereoscopic photograph 
not only serves the purposes of the common photograph, in re¬ 
viving fading memories of things which one has actually seen— 
and infinitely better—but also provides a far more adequate prep¬ 
aration for travel, since the possibility of misunderstanding 
the picture is so much less. It ceases in fact to be a mere proc¬ 
ess of looking over pictures. No imagination is required to 
feel that a strange witchcraft has transferred us to Italy, and 
ushered us into the very presence of its monuments. From the 
background things are made to stand out for us with the most 
perfect semblance of reality. And at our leisure we may return 
to the same scene twenty times over. There will be none of the 
haste which deadens interest and confuses every impression. 
We have no trains to catch, no bargaining with hotel proprietors, 
no cabmen, no beggars to be paid for their insolence, no 
steamer waiting to bring us home again. 

If circumstances compel us to defer the real journey, and 
first-hand acquaintance with the scenes of which we have so 
long dreamed, we have in the stereoscope and our hundred 
carefully chosen subjects an excellent substitute, provided care 
is taken to prepare, and time given for comparison and re¬ 
flection. In this way we may obtain at home what is, after all, 
the best and most lasting result of intelligent travel,—a habit 
of close observation, and an ability to make the past an inter¬ 
preter of the present. 

Even if we are planning to make this stereoscopic tour of 
Italy a long continued pleasure, as often repeated as the fare¬ 
well trips of a certain prima donna, we shall need some refreshing 

17 


ON SEEING WITH BOTH EYES 


of the memory, or even a more thorough preparation in the 
history of a country which has not only had a long past of its 
own, but has also given of its best in various ages for the gen¬ 
eral service of the world. Not to go equipped with some knowl¬ 
edge of Roman and Italian history, would be again to shut one 
eye and lose all the perspective, which alone can make the 
moving figures of to-day stand forth in their proper relief against 
all that lies behind. It is a long vista,—back from the twentieth 
century and the new Rome, spreading beyond its old walls, 
back through measureless distances to far away Cumae, by the 
sea, a thousand years before Christ. 




18 


THE HISTORY OF ITALY 


A STERESOCOPIC VIEW 

A visit to an old country loses the greater part of its charms 
if we are not prepared to appreciate the perpetual contrasts it 
offers between past and present. We may be ignorant of its 
history, and of the part which that nation has played in bygone 
centuries. If so, we may see with our outward eyes the stir 
and life of the moment, but cannot hope to understand their 
full meaning; still less can we avail ourselves of the historic 
treasures in venerable buildings or in works of art. On the 
other hand we may come—especially if that land be Italy— 
with a memory stored with classic lore, and an absolute ignor¬ 
ance of its recent history and conditions in our own day. If 
we visit Italy, as most people do, in this painfully one-sided 
state of mind, we shall awake from the dreams of years with a 
shock, to find that those long-cherished visions do not square 
with present-day realities; that the life of to-day, as in every 
other living and progressive country, fills the whole foreground, 
while the historic scenes and places, of which we have been 
thinking so exclusively, are thrust completely into the back¬ 
ground. 

That trolley-cars should be heard in the streets of Rome, 
and even in the Forum itself, seems at first a real profanation. 
And what shall we say of the ancient walls, broken down to 
admit the railway? Or of the cascades of Tivoli, the Tibur of 
Horace, made to furnish an up-to-date capital with electric 
lights? But it does not take long to recover one's balance, and 
to find that this busy life, and these modern improvements, if 
not so picturesque as a romantic wilderness, are yet of a greater 
human interest. The most enthusiastic student of the past 
would not wish that Italy should have no future, but rather 
that this active present, often jostling the sacred things of the 
past, may atone for its rudeness by producing other things, 
great and good, and as sacred, perhaps, to coming ages. In 

19 


THE HISTORY OF ITALY 


Greece one may well feel that there has been but one great and 
productive period in the history of the land, that all which has 
followed has been in comparison mere refuse, to be cleared 
away, that the ancient ruin may stand forth more perfectly in 
its purity of taste. In Italy, however, the whole situation is 
altogether different; one is constantly reminded that the genius 
of Roman history was—and is—continuity. It is not a series 
of brilliant scenes, but one great picture. 

The art of seeing Italy, then, will consist in understanding 
first this foreground of the picture—the present, with all its 
turmoil—and then in distinguishing broadly between the 
various degrees of receding perspective, through the middle 
spaces to one plane after another of background, until sight is 
lost in distance. 

To begin with the figures that meet us on the streets,—what 
is the meaning of this officer in a long cloak of light-gray,draped 
about his shoulders with all the skill with which the Roman 
orator of old arranged the folds of his toga? What does the 
soldier of a secular king in the streets of a city ruled for many 
centuries by a spiritual monarch, the earthly vicar of an invis¬ 
ible King? Why does the palace upon this hill—the Quirinal— 
seem to frown upon the distant Vatican, across the Tiber? For 
what reason does this capital, of all the capitals in the world, 
alone have two ambassadors from each of the countries of 
Europe, one accredited to the Pope, and one to the king ? Of 
these two sovereigns, thus acknowledged by the rest of the 
world, why does one show himself constantly with his troops 
or driving in his carriage, while the other is never seen beyond 
the limits of a single palace, together with its church and its 
gardens, and is pleased to be called the Prisoner of the 
Vatican? 

Here, in these few questions and their answers, is the whole 
story of United Italy, of the heroic struggles and bitter ani¬ 
mosities through which the fragments of Italy were at last 
brought together into a single kingdom,—for better, or for 
worse. 

Yet this story, which deserves to be as well-known as any 
other chapter in the history of Italy, is precisely where most 
travelers find themselves completely in the dark. They have 
filled their minds with the glories of the past, ignoring the new- 
made history, for the very reason that it belongs to yesterday. 

20 



THE HISTORY OF ITALY 


It is almost impossible for one who sees the Italy of to-day 
to appreciate the changes which have been wrought since the 
days of Napoleon the First. What is now the Kingdom of 
Italy was then the embryo Kingdom of Sardinia, taking its 
name from that inert island, and its hopes for the future from 
the active Piedmont, with Savoy and Genoa. The capital was 
Turin, the king belonged to the house of Savoy. To the east¬ 
ward, north of the Po, the conquering Austrians still held 
Lombardy and Venetia, the regions, that is, about Milan and 
Venice. South of the Po, besides two or three small principal¬ 
ities, Parma, Modena, and Lucca, lay Tuscany, a grand-duchy, 
with capital at Florence; and then the States of the Church, ex¬ 
tending the whole width of the peninsula and southward be¬ 
yond Rome, where the Pope ruled over these his temporal 
possessions. The whole southern half of the “ boot," together 
with Sicily, owed allegiance to the King of the Two Sicilies, 
with Naples for its capital. So complicated was the political 
geography of Italy down to 1859. 

A dozen years saw the removal of all these lines of division, 
the map reconstructed, and the capital removed in the end to 
Rome. The hated Austrian was at last expelled from Lom¬ 
bardy in 1859, after the victories of Magenta and Solferino, not 
without the aid of Napoleon III. Tuscany and the smaller 
states made common cause with Sardinia and Lombardy. In 
the South a revolution in 1860 brought the rule of the Bourbon 
kings over Naples and Sicily to an end. Thus was formed the 
new kingdom of Italy, and five years later, in 1865, Victor 
Emanuel removed his capital to Florence. The States of the 
Church had been reduced to the immediate vicinity of Rome. 

In 1866, as a result of the war between Prussia and Austria, 
in which the latter was defeated, Venice and its territory were 
given up by the Austrians, and the new kingdom could extend 
its bounds to the head of the Adriatic. One loss of territory 
had been suffered in the cession of Savoy and Nice to France, as 
the price of aid against the Austrian. And now Victor Emanuel 
found his kingdom interrupted by the small tract still held by 
Pope Pius IX. Insignificant in size, this piece of land contained 
Rome, destined by every political reason to become once more 
the capital. Circumstances, rather than his own wish, seemed 
to be leading the king toward its inevitable occupation. The 
Pope, however, limited as his resources were, was defended by 

21 


THE HISTORY OF ITALY 


French troops, and the powerful influence of their master, 
Napoleon III, until 1870, when France found herself at war 
in an unequal contest with Prussia. Deprived of his support 
the Pope was helpless, and little more than a nominal resistance 
was made to the entry of the Italian forces on September 20. 
Thus Rome received a king and a government which had mi¬ 
grated first from Turin to Florence, and then from Florence to 
Rome. The Pope, naturally enough, could not resign himself 
to the loss of his capital, nor come to any terms with the invad¬ 
ing power. Shutting himself up in the Vatican for years, he 
bequeathed in 1878 to a greater successor, Leo XIII, the policy 
of a self-inflicted imprisonment, and a calm, if not altogether 
patient, waiting for developments, in the hope—to this day 
deferred—that some other power might intervene. 

Thus Rome presents the unique spectacle of a capital with 
two courts and two monarchs. One of these, residing at the 
Quirinal, is the political ruler of the brand-new kingdom of 
Italy, with Sicily and Sardinia, and a single ill-starred province 
in Africa on the Red Sea. The other, although deprived of 
temporal sovereignty, and in his own eyes a prisoner in the 
Vatican, is still the spiritual ruler of a large fraction of the human 
race, and is venerated not only as the head of one of the oldest 
institutions in the world, but also as a man of the highest char¬ 
acter and ability,—the worthy restorer of the old-time prestige 
of the papacy. To make the contrast between these two mon¬ 
archs still more striking, the king is nearly sixty years younger 
than the Pope, who was already a cardinal before the king’s 
grandfather, Victor Emanuel, ascended the throne of Sardinia; 
and became Pope a few weeks after Humbert, the king’s father, 
succeeded to the Italian crown. 

Animosity between these rival powers still continues to be 
the main force in Italian politics, but with the lapse of time 
hard feelings have been somewhat softened. Scarcely a year 
passes in which something does not occur which may be inter¬ 
preted as an omen of ultimate reconciliation. Only a short 
time ago the garrison of royal troops which since 1870 had 
occupied the Castle of St. Angelo, the ancient fortress of the 
popes, was withdrawn. 

The rapid growth of the city since it became the capital has 
made great changes, and the new Rome is altogether different 
from the Rome of the popes. But for the throngs of visitors 

22 


THE HISTORY OF ITALY 


to Rome the centre of interest is not the Quirinal. It is still 
the Vatican and St. Peter’s, or the Forum and the Palatine. 
To the outside world Rome is not so much the capital of the 
new kingdom—after all one of the lesser states—as the ancient 
seat of power,—the head and centre of the Roman Church, 
and the ideal source from which flow so many of the springs of 
European and American culture. 

So much for the foreground of our picture, and the most con¬ 
spicuous of the living figures. Immediately behind them one is 
vaguely conscious of things in themselves unattractive, and 
suggestive of decay rather than progress,—a dull period, un¬ 
relieved by any form of greatness. It was an age of the com¬ 
monplace, vainly striving after originality in art, and produc¬ 
ing little that is worthy of permanence. This is the mental 
and artistic desert which separates Italy of the Unification in 
the nineteenth century, from the Italy of the Renaissance in the 
fifteenth and sixteenth. Politically there are no great figures; 
no great popes in the eighteenth century, to keep the name of 
Rome before the world; small states everywhere were quarrel¬ 
ing with one another, until all were crushed for the time by 
Napoleon; misrule and corruption prevailed. Further back, 
in the seventeenth century we make out some well-known 
figures among the popes, but less for their prominence in the 
world at large, than as the builders of Roman churches and 
palaces. 

With the Renaissance we have reached the middle ground of 
our picture, and a bewilderment of striking features. All these 
we shall find the more suggestive historically, and the more 
inspiring artistically, the more we become familiar with the 
great movements which made Italy in its most brilliant modern 
period. These were the Revival of Learning, and that revival 
of the arts to which the name Renaissance has been given. 
Beginning at Florence the two related movements affected all 
Italy, gradually reached the rest of Europe, and renewed the 
whole European civilization. Their ultimate effects then are 
to be found everywhere, wherever the modern man of training 
and refinement is to be found. But externally their immediate 
effects may best be studied in Italy in the great churches and 
palaces and libraries, and in the paintings and sculptures, pro¬ 
duced in the early and unabated enthusiasm of a fresh contact 
‘with what remained of Greek and Roman art and letters. In 

23 


THE HISTORY OF ITALY 


this period Italian history offers a most inviting field for study, 
as the meeting-place of ancient and modern life. Politically 
it was a period of rival cities, fiercely competing with each other, 
or combining against the strongest, Venice; an age of worldly 
popes, far too skilled in the game of politics and war; an age of 
intrigue and corrupt diplomacy, of general weakness in the face 
of danger from without, as from the Turks. 

But we may not limit our view, and neglect the more distant 
parts of the picture. Back of the great revival, the Renaissance, 
lies the interminable period of the middle ages, at first sight a 
dead level, but to the more practiced eye relieved by many a 
commanding height. To this period belong the older cathedrals 
and churches, many of the palaces, long stretches of city-walls 
and countless towers; also the mosaics and paintings of the 
early masters. Outstripped in so many ways by the works of 
the Renaissance, these of the middle ages have yet a character 
of their own, and give to many of the most picturesque cities 
the charms which have made their names household words the 
world over. Venice, Siena, Perugia, and a dozen others still 
remain in all essentials mediieval cities. And yet they abound 
also in the products of the greater period which brought the 
middle age to an end with the fourteenth century. 

Ihe buildings of this period divide themselves into two leading 
styles, the Romanesque and the Gothic. Of these the former 
represented late Roman methods of building, modified by in¬ 
fluences which came from Constantinople, while the Gothic was 
a foreign importation brought from France, and never thor¬ 
oughly at home in Italy, or perfectly understood by southern 
architects. But the Romanesque did not cease to be practised 
after the introduction of the Gothic. Different regions of Italy 
had their own peculiarities, and their own schools, according to 
the special influences affecting the different cities. 

Politically speaking the whole mediaeval period was restless 
and unsettled. On the one hand there was the perpetual war 
of factions within the cities, and no possibility of permanent 
alliance between city and city. On the other there was the 
constant interference of the German-Roman emperors and the 
popes, or the meddling of France and Spain. Above the din 
of lesser striefs were heard the rival claims of empire and papacy, 
and the clash of temporal with spiritual powers. Significant of 
the general disorder in such a state of society were the tall, al- 

24 


THE HISTORY OF ITALY 


most windowless, towers of the nobles. Many of them remain, 
as the most striking feature of some of the smaller towns; and 
even in the larger cities a few still stand as grim reminders of 
days when all society was armed to the teeth. 

Still further back in the middle ages we come upon a time of 
more complete chaos, before the re-establishment of the empire 
by Charles the Great (800). Devastated by the Lombards, 
pillaged by the Saracen pirates, divided in its allegiance between 
the Eastern Empire and the German invaders, now established 
in Italy, the country found increasing strength for defence in 
the enlarging powers of the popes. In earlier days it had looked 
to the emperors at Constantinople for aid against the Goths, 
and had received the ablest generals a Justinian could send,— 
Belisarius and Narses. Deeds of heroism shine forth out of 
gathering darkness in the sixth century, when Rome suffered 
the agonies of a siege three times, and was five times captured 
within sixteen years, while Milan was totally destroyed. 

Another landmark in the distance, still more remote, is the 
German kingdom of the invading Ostrogoths at Ravenna, while 
the name of their king, Theodoric, stands out more conspicu¬ 
ously than that of any Italian of his time. For the traveler the 
days of Theodoric are vividly brought to mind by his massive 
tomb, and the churches of Ravenna, a quaint city by the 
Adriatic, provincial and unimportant now, but to the reader of 
history a picturesque link between the last age of the Western 
Empire, the Ostrogothic kingdom, and the rule of Justinian at 
Constantinople. 

And now we have reached the old Roman Empire, and its 
five hundred years of sovereignty. The rude architecture of 
Goth and Lombard is forgotten as we begin to make out the 
mighty ruins of imperial Rome. First comes an interval of 
decline and disorganization, beginning a century and a half be¬ 
fore, and continuing as long after, the removal of the capital to 
the Bosphorus. Over this period the eye would gladly pass at 
once to the happy era of the Antonines. But those three cen¬ 
turies produced many things which cannot be so lightly ignored, 
among them the full flower of the Roman law, and the conversion 
of the empire to Christianity, with the natural development of 
a distinctively Christian art, at first in the catacombs, and then 
in the basilicas and churches. With this period came a new 
architecture, pagan in its first stages, but destined to immediate 

25 


THE HISTORY OF ITALY 


appropriation by the new faith as it emerged from obscurity 
and persecution into the dangerous sunshine of political favor. 

Back of that age of transition is the reign of the good Marcus 
Aurelius, the philosopher on a throne, beset with many cares 
and anxieties. Then his adoptive father, Antoninus, preceded 
by Hadrian, and he by Trajan. These happy reigns made the 
golden age of the empire, at least on the side of peace and ma¬ 
terial prosperity. Out of this time rise before our eyes the 
Castle of St. Angelo, Hadrian’s ponderous mausoleum, and the 
vast dome of his Pantheon, and the villa which stretches itself 
out like a city, beneath the heights and waterfalls of Tivoli,— 
then the sculptured Column of Trajan and his many triumphal 
arches. It was an age of building on a scale unrivaled in the 
earlier days of the Empire; an age of flourishing cities, from the 
Euphrates to the Firth of Clyde, and of highways bringing the 
most distant provinces into direct connection with the capital. 

Another century carries us across a chequered period, of 
emperors good and bad, succeeding each other sometimes after 
civil wars, but more often by peaceful inheritance. It was an 
age capable of producing such monsters of self-indulgence as 
Nero and Domitian, along with able generals and administrators 
of provinces, who brought peace and order to distant countries, 
even while the court was running its wild course of dissipation 
at Rome. 

At length the age of Augustus, the greatest and most favored 
of fortune in the long line of emperors beginning with himself. 
The brilliance of his court, and of the literature which it fostered, 
the splendors of the capital rebuilt in a single reign with the re¬ 
sources of a world,—all these have left a name never since 
eclipsed. One figure alone towers to a greater height than 
Augustus,—that of Julius Csesar, dictator and ruthless de¬ 
stroyer of a republic hopelessly corrupt. Cut off by the insane 
jealousy of smaller men in the midst of a career which has af¬ 
fected every generation of civilized meii from that day to this, 
he stands alone, absolutely alone. 

Back of Csesar the Republic, torn throughout its history by 
party struggles, and gradually falling away from the earlier 
ideal of severe military discipline. Nevertheless it had a strength 
which no foreign enemy could long withstand. Circumstances 
far more than mere aggressiveness, led to the conquest, first of 
Italy, and then of a large part of the Mediterranean world. 

26 


THE HISTORY OF ITALY 


From the later period of the Republic great men seem to rise to 
our view,—a Pompey, conquering the East for Rome, but unable 
to maintain the cause of a corrupt aristocracy, unable to direct 
the new forces of the time; driven out of Italy by Caesar, de¬ 
feated at Pharsalus, fleeing to Egypt, there to meet his death 
as he landed. And then the Younger Cato, the steadfast re¬ 
publican, implacable enemy of Caesar, taking his own life at 
Utica in Africa, after the victor had once more defeated the 
remnants of Pompey’s party. Among them all Cicero seems 
the most familiar figure, thanks to the power of speech. We 
see him as the great advocate, defending the oppressed, coming 
to the rescue of provinces by the prosecution of corrupt gov¬ 
ernors. We see him at the proudest moment of his life, sup¬ 
pressing the conspiracy of Catiline; and in exile, forlorn and 
dejected; later governing an eastern province, and doing 
his best to win even military laurels; then returning to find 
that a civil war was breaking out. Removed from any prom¬ 
inent part in affairs, he cannot decide between Csesar and Pom¬ 
pey, until at last he takes the side of the Republic, and with its 
downfall is forced into complete retirement, and the company 
of books and his pen. Finally the assassination of Caesar 
brought him forth again, to thunder against Antony, until the 
vengeance of his enemy silenced the orator, and exposed head 
and right hand at the Rostra. 

A generation further back we come upon the commanding 
figures of Sulla and Marius, the one almost tyrant of Rome, the 
other its deliverer from the German hordes which were swarming 
into Italy,—both men of blood and iron. Back of those days 
of civil war comes the party strife in the times of the Gracchi, 
noble leaders of the down-trodden people. And now the 
Scipios begin to appear,—first Africanus the Younger, the de¬ 
stroyer of the rival Carthage, and champion of everything Greek. 

Already Rome is mistress of many distant provinces, from 
Gibraltar to the Black Sea. Wars, east and west, seem to 
occupy her whole attention. The figures of ^Emilius Paulus, 
the conqueror of Macedonia, of Flamininus, the “ liberator ” of 
Greece, are types of the period. But far greater is the old 
censor, Cato, schooled in all the hardships of war, and trained 
in every Roman virtue, the opponent of Greek culture, but one 
of the first of Roman orators, and the earliest Roman historian. 
And now the Second Punic War, and the long struggle in which 

27 


THE HISTORY OF ITALY 


the hero was Hannibal, at first swiftly conquering, and then at 
bay for years; until Scipio Africanus was sent over at last to 
Africa, and won the victory of Zama. But the older Scipios, 
and Fabius, the Delayer, and Marcellus the conqueror of Syra¬ 
cuse,—these are among the great names of an age when every 
nerve was strained to save Rome from the domination of Car¬ 
thage. 

Further still lies the First Punic War, the beginning of the 
long duel, and then the conflict with Pyrrhus, and still earlier 
that with the Samnites in the South, and Etruscans in the 
North,—the age of Regulus and Curius and Fabricius, and the 
heroes of the older and homelier sort. The domain of Rome 
has shrunk first to the peninsula of Italy, and then to a small 
portion of the land, growing by slow conquest, but never giving 
promise of a great empire. An Appius Claudius appears as the 
champion of expansion, building the famous road which bears 
his name; a Camillus as the avenger of the defeat and disgrace 
suffered at the hand of the Gauls. The burning of the city by 
these invaders is a landmark beyond which we trace with dif¬ 
ficulty the outlines of the early history. 

Soon we reach a region of pure legend, and the shadowy forms 
of the kings. But in imagination they are still there,—Tarquin 
the Proud, bringing ruin to the kingly power by his tyranny; 
Servius Tullius, who was believed to have framed a constitution, 
and to have built the walls of the city; Tarquin the Elder, who 
introduced many customs from Etruria, and began the great 
temple on the Capitol; Ancus Martius and Tullus Hostilius; 
then Numa, the Moses of the Roman state; finally Romulus,’ 
the reputed founder of the Palatine city. We can only imagine 
that we see that primitive settlement upon a single hill. And 
the earlier Alba Longa quite baffles vision,—with ^Eneas and 
old Latinus. Yet we can discern the features of an Etruscan 
civilization, slowly working among a.race of shepherds, and are 
vaguely conscious that other tribes, Umbrian and Samnite, 
seem to have equal claims with the Latin stock, and to show 
quite as much promise. 

No part of the remotest background is so clear as the Greek 
colonies in the South. Cumae, to the west of Naples, is the 
oldest of them all, and that which contributes most to the 
making of the Roman,—by its alphabet in the beginning, by 
its prophetic Sibyl in the end. And the founding of that an- 

28 


THE HISTORY OF ITALY 


cient city, in the eleventh century before Christ, brings us to 
the absolute limit of our historic vision,—the rock from which 
Cum® looked down upon the sea, with an eye toward the setting 
sun and the distant future. 


29 


THE CHIEF PERIODS OF ITALIAN 
HISTORY 

AND THEIR CONTRIBUTIONS TO WESTERN CIVILIZATION 

It is quite impossible to travel about in Italy, without daily 
discovering some new debt owed to that country by the civ¬ 
ilization of our twentieth century. We had never before sus¬ 
pected how many of the things which seem to belong emphati¬ 
cally to our own English or American life of the present, were 
due in their origin either to ancient Rome or to modern Italy. 
No other country has exerted so great an influence upon the 
northern and western nations, and for so long a time. We for¬ 
get that Italy has also its independent history, apart from its 
contributions to the common stock of European institutions, 
arts, and letters, to everjThing, in fact, which enters into that 
complex thing which we call civilization. From this point of 
view we almost ignore the earliest and the latest periods of 
Italian history, to concentrate our attention upon the three 
productive ages, the Roman, the Mediaeval, and the Renaissance. 
In each of these periods were developed certain definite prin¬ 
ciples or methods, and certain tangible results, which became 
the common property of the world at large, and hence enter 
still into the inheritance of every cultivated mind, however re¬ 
mote in actual distance from the old sources. 

But what were the most important contributions which Italy 
in its long history has made to this common fund, now drawn 
upon by all the world? 

I. The Roman Period produced: 

(1) A certain discipline, which made the individual strictly 
subject to the common good in the family and in the 
state; hence, 

(2) Political institutions, developed at first for a single 
city-state, but capable at last of welding the most 
diverse peoples into one great empire; 

(3) A system of law which has profoundly affected, and 
still affects, every modern v/cstern nation; 

30 


THE CHIEF PERIODS OF ITALIAN HISTORY 


(4) A language which became for some fifteen centuries 
the link between peoples of various race and opposite 
customs, and entered so largely into the modern 
tongues that it remains to this day one of the founda¬ 
tions of education; 

(5) An architecture whose later forms inspired nearly all 
of the mediaeval building, except the Gothic, while 
the earlier and better works formed the models for the 
Renaissance; 

(6) The very idea that the civilized world is one, with 
common interests greater than all its differences; 

(7) Finally Rome was the almoner of gifts even greater 
than her own, or the stern schoolmaster by whom the 
nations of the West were brought into contact, first 
with Greek culture and art, and then with the Christian 
faith. 

II. The Mediaeval Period produced: 

(1) The Papacy, as a central force in religion,—a force 
often misapplied or abused, and destined to lose its 
universality with the Reformation, while in its intensity 
it still remains to our own time undiminished; 

(2) The Holy Roman Empire, a feeble reflection of that 
from which it took its name, but still one of the few 
influences making for unity; 

(3) A spirit of subjection, both individual and national, 
to the two great international institutions, the Church 
and the Empire; 

(4) The beginnings of a national literature and art,-r- 
a Dante and a Giotto. 

III. The Renaissance produced: 

(1) A reaction against both State and Church, in favor 
of the individual,—the principle of a strictly personal 
liberty; 

(2) A universal culture based upon the renewed study of 
antiquity,—and this as a substitute for the forces 
which had formerly united the world; 

(3) An art and a literature, also based upon the Greek 
and the Roman, and true to the conditions just named, 
while in later times they have exerted a permanent 
influence upon other nations from that day to this. 

31 


THE CHIEF PERIODS OF ITALIAN HISTORY 


Such arc the three great periods in the history of Italy, and 
such the more important contributions—some temporary, more 
permanent—which each has made to the civilization of the 
world. Not that each, or any, is devoid of interest for what 
it brought to Italy alone. 

It is in this latter direction that the remaining periods of 
Italian history are worthy of study, since their influence upon 
the world without has been so much less direct and obvious. 

These are the first and last chapters in the long story, the one 
dimly realized out of a remote past, the other constantly forced 
upon our attention by a living present: 

I. The Early Period, beginning with prehistoric man, and 
continuing through the age of Etruscan supremacy in the North 
and the Greek colonies in Southern Italy; through the early 
days of Rome, under its legendary kings and overshadowed 
by Etruria; finally through the earlier Republic, and ending 
where something like authentic Roman history may be said to 
begin, with the capture of the city by the Gauls in 390 B. C. 
In this time there was no Italy in a political sense,—nothing but 
the warring units, which were later to be brought together. 

II. The Modern Period from Napoleon I to the present 
time, embracing the struggles for freedom from the Austrian 
and the Bourbon, and at length the unification of the entire 
peninsula into one kingdom. This period shows the individual 
city once more in subjection to the idea of a larger state. It 
has produced as yet nothing which other peoples have been 
prepared to appropriate. For Italy has been sharing in the 
greater movements of a stirring age,—itself not the source of 
motion, as in its earlier periods. 

In thus dividing the history of Italy into five great chapters 
we have practically ignored times of transition. Certainly they 
were of less importance than the periods of which we have been 
speaking. But they must not be entirely overlooked, even 
if the results they left behind were often negative, or even 
destructive. 

I. Thus there was an interval of transition between the end 
of the Roman Period and the real beginning of the Mediaeval,— 
that is, before the latter had assumed those definite features 
which the name suggests. This interval covers a little more 
than a century, from the end of the Western Empire in 476 
A.D., to the accession of Pope Gregory the Great in 590. The 

32 


THE CHIEF PERIODS OF ITALIAN HISTORY 


German migrations which destroyed the Roman Empire had 
begun in fact before the end of the fourth century, but the 
Roman civilization continued, though doomed, and did not 
come abruptly to an end when the succession of the western 
emperors ceased. But in a general way these dates may serve 
our purpose in indicating this period of transition. 

II. Another transition age, about two centuries in length, 
lies between the close of the Renaissance, in the latter part of 
the sixteenth century, and the age of Napoleon and the begin¬ 
nings of the national movement, which at last accomplished the 
union of Italy. Historically unimportant in its larger achieve¬ 
ments—or the lack of them—this period constantly obtrudes 
itself upon the attention of the traveler, chiefly in the form of 
degenerate art, falling away from the purer taste of the Re¬ 
naissance,—a perpetual posing and straining after extravagant 
effects. Such are the churches and palaces of the seventeenth 
and eighteenth centuries, in every phase of the restless style 
known as the baroque. 

Only in that sense in which the trough of the sea belongs to 
the wave which preceded it, can the first of these periods of 
transition be reckoned with the Roman, or the second with the 
Renaissance. 


33 


HISTORICAL PERIODS 


REPRESENTED IN OUR ITINERARY 

I. Early Period’, to 390 B. C.: 

Paestum, 17; Rome, 22 and 23 (the obelisk). 

II. Roman Period, 390 B. C. to 476 A. D.: 

(a) Greek sculptures: Naples, 6, 7; Rome, 30, 31, 53; 
Florence, 70, 71. 

(b) In general: Pompeii, 11-16; Rome, 21, 32-41, 45-47, 
52, 54, 55 (the bridges), 56 (the mosaics), 58-61; 
Verona, 90. 

[The Transition Period, 476-590, is seldom represented 
outside of Ravenna, and may be neglected here]. 

III. Mediaeval Period, 590-1400: 

Rome, 21 (the Column of Phocas), 32 and 41 (do), 26 
(sculpture), 43 (mosaics, tabernacle, etc.), 57, 59 (the 
upper part); Perugia, 65; Florence, 66-68, 72, 74; Pisa, 
77, 78; Venice, 79-81, 83, 84, 85 (the palace); Milan, 92, 
93. 

IV. Renaissance Period, 1400-1580: 

Rome, 22-24 and 46 (the dome), 25 (sculpture), 28, 30 
(the hall), 42 (sculpture), 49; Florence, 66 (the dome), 
68 (sculptures), 69, 70 (the pictures), 73, 75 (sculpture); 
Venice, 79-81 (in part); Pavia (near), 94. 

V Transition Period, 1580-1800: 

Rome, 22-24, 26, 27, 29, 30 (decorations), 43 (do.), 44, 
47 (sculptures), 48, 50, 51, 52 (the church), 62; Venice, 
82, 85 (church), 87. 

VI. Modern Period, 1800 — : 

Rome, 56; Milan, 92 (the fa?ade); Genoa, 98 ; not to 
mention the various street scenes and general views. 


34 


NAPLES 


With the great increase both in trade and in travel be¬ 
tween American ports and the Mediterranean, Naples 
has come to be one of the strongest links in the chain of 
mutual interest and advantage which binds the old world 
to the new. And what was once, as a rule, the southern 
limit of wanderings which began at Liverpool, has be¬ 
come for many the starting point for northward travel, 
and the gateway of the East. For the American, at least, 
Italy has ceased to be a mere appendage to the continent 
of Europe, and is now visited every year by many who 
go no further, and by more who, either on the outward 
or the homeward voyage, prefer the Mediterranean route. 
To this great change in the commercial and traveling 
world the natural advantages of Naples have contrib¬ 
uted in no small degree. Few maritime cities in the 
world are so favorably situated. And it was at a very 
early age that the advantages of this site began to be ap¬ 
preciated by Greek merchants and colonists. Upon a 
rock by the sea to the west of Naples the Greeks perched 
their first stronghold on the soil of Italy. This was 
Cumae, in the eleventh century before Christ; and from 
Cumae came the founders of oldest Naples, the town 
called Parthenope, and of the later town, Neapolis, also 
within the limits of the present city. The Greeks flour¬ 
ished by their trade with the Etruscans, the Samnites, 
and the neighboring cities of Campania. But by 326 B. C. 
the Roman had come to conquer and occupy, and to 
be conquered himself by the soft charms of this climate 

35 


ITALY 


Maps 


and the abundance of all its good things. It was not, 
however, until the latter days of the Roman Republic 
and the beginning of the Empire that the fame of Naples 
and its shores was fully established. By that time the 
whole bay was encircled with the villas of noble, or fa¬ 
mous, or wealthy Romans. Here emperors often resided, 
from the first of their number, Augustus, down to the 
latest, Romulus Augustulus, who was deposed in 476 
A. D., and died in exile near Naples. Capri witnessed 
for years the dissipations of Tiberius, while Baiae saw 
the orgies of a Nero. 

In the prolonged wars in the sixth century between 
the Goths and the armies of the eastern emperor, Jus¬ 
tinian, Naples suffered severely. But for centuries it 
was virtually independent, both of the emperors at Con¬ 
stantinople and of the Lombard invaders of Italy. At 
length, in the twelfth century, it was united to the King¬ 
dom of the Two Sicilies under the Norman kings, Roger 
and his successors. Later it exchanged these Norman 
masters for Germans, the Hohenstaufen, of whom the 
greatest was the Emperor Frederick II. Under the 
French house of Anjou the Kingdom of Naples was ruled 
for the best part of two centuries (to 1435). Then came 
the long age of Spanish rule, varied by intervals of sub¬ 
jection to Austria and France. At last, in 1860, the 
hated Bourbons were expelled, and their territory be¬ 
came a part of the new Kingdom of Italy, under the 
house of Savoy. 

It has been a chequered history; unlike that of most 
other great cities of the world in never enjoying free¬ 
dom from foreign interference for any length of time. 
While it has exerted a certain charm over the rest of the 
world, and has drawn many good things and gifted men 
to itself, Naples has never been one of the productive 

36 


NAPLES 


No. 1 


1 , 2 

centres in art or letters, or institutions. Not a few cities 
of Northern Italy, far inferior in size, have left a 
broader mark upon the page of human progress. A 
single generation at Florence in its golden age did more 
for learning, literature, and art than has Naples in its 
" cycle of Cathay . 7 ’ 

Yet Naples is rich in artistic treasures, especially those 
gathered together in the National Museum,* a huge 
structure erected by some Spanish viceroy to serve as 
barracks, but converted more than a century ago into a 
museum, which has been steadily enriched, as the excava¬ 
tion of Pompeiif and other sites has proceeded. 

More recently Naples has acquired fame among scien¬ 
tists, since the establishment of the Aquarium, with its 
laboratory for the study of the wonderfully varied ma¬ 
rine life of the Mediterranean. 

But the celebrity of Naples depends neither upon what 
has been done there by men, nor upon the treasures 
brought together from many sources. Nature herself 
gave a situation, and nothing more was needed. In sailing 
into the port of Naples we have already taken our meas¬ 
ure of that famous bay with its mountainous shores and 
outlying islands, Capri and Ischia. 

And now that we have landed and found our way 
through the din of the streets to our hotel, the first im¬ 
pulse is to climb up to some height commanding a broad 
view over the city, the nearer part of the bay, and above 
all, Vesuvius. 

i. Birds-eye View of Naples and Vesuvius, 

We have chosen the height of San MartinoJ close by 
the Castle of St. Elmo, and now look down upon the city 


♦See Nos. 6, 7. 
tSee Nos. 11-16. 
X See map 2. 


37 



No. 1 


ITALY 


Map 


from an elevation of more than eight hundred feet. As 
everywhere about the Bay of Naples, Vesuvius is the 
focus towards which all eyes converge. A cloud of smoke 
has settled about the crater, but the rest of the mountain 
is perfectly clear. Days without smoke are rare, but it 
is often blown inland by the sea-breeze, or directly away 
from Naples. In this transparent air the mountain, with 
all the white villages, climbing its blue and purple slopes, 
seems very near. And yet the distance, as the crow 
flies, is nearly ten miles.* 

The lower peak to the left, and quite clear of cloud, is 
Monte Somma, in reality a long semicircular ridge de¬ 
scribed from Vesuvius as a centre. The height of this 
lower ridge is 3,730 feet, and is constant, while the cone 
of Vesuvius suffers such changes from time to time as to 
increase or diminish the height of the mountain by as 
much as 400 feet. It is now about 4,200 feet high. But 
an eruption to-morrow—certainly there are no signs of 
one to-day—may seriously affect the present altitude. 
The whole appearance of the volcano was very different 
before the first recorded eruption,—that historic one of 
79 A. D., which destroyed Herculaneum and Pom¬ 
peii. In those days of its innocence it was probably 
about the height of Monte Somma, with a circular, barren 
valley occupying the great depression of an older and 
extinct crater. The present cone had not yet been 
formed.f 

The shore of the bay is lined with an unbroken suc¬ 
cession of suburbs along the road which leads on the right 
to Pompeii. If we produce the line of that breakwater 
beyond the warships on our right, it will strike the oppo¬ 
site shore at Resina and Portici, beneath which lies Her- 


*See map 4. 
fSee No. 9. 


38 



2 


NAPLES 


No. 1 


culaneum, buried at a great depth, except for very lim¬ 
ited excavations. Pompeii is much further from Naples, 
and lies beyond that point made by the projection of the 
lower slopes of Vesuvius into the sea. Returning to the 
warships and the outer breakwater, we see that the naval 
harbor is quite distinct from the Porto Mercantile. The 
great dark castle with round towers by the naval harbor 
and the Arsenal is Castel Nuovo. To the left of the 
castle lies another ironclad, and beyond it a lighthouse 
on the great mole which carries a whole row of bonded 
warehouses. These divide the naval from the general 
harbor, or Porto Mercantile. On the further side 
toward Vesuvius, the port is being enlarged by new har¬ 
bor-works. On the left a number of white liners are lying 
near the principal landing, the (new) Immacolatella. 
One with a single stack is lying close alongside the cus¬ 
tom-house, where we submitted with unnecessary trepi¬ 
dation to a customs examination which would have been 
just as vigorous in appearance, and as harmless in fact, 
if we had been landing from the little Capri steamer. 
This is the centre of the stirring life of the port, one of 
the busiest in the whole Mediterranean. To the left, near 
the furthest corner of the harbor, is the Villa del Popolo, 
a small park, with the Marinella* beyond. The eastern 
quarters seem to stretch away indefinitely. 

At our feet, beyond the green slope below San Martino, 
we have a wilderness of gray and yellow roofs, cut by 
black canons of streets,f in which the eyes lose every¬ 
thing in the blackness of the shadow, always more intense 
in a southern climate. Straight across the middle of our 
view runs the Toledo , the principal street of Naples, now 
now called Via Roma , but stubbornly clinging to its old 


♦See No. 3. 
fSee No. 5. 


39 



No. 1 


ITALY 


Map 


name, with its memories of Spanish rule. Yet there are 
no great buildings or towers to mark the line of that 
famous thoroughfare. In this fact is one of the charac¬ 
teristics of Naples in general. Here and there rises a 
church dome, or, more rarely, a tower, but compared 
with other Italian cities it has few towers and domes, or 
other artificial eminences, above the common level of roof- 
tiles. And no great work of architecture claims a place 
in the history of art. 

History of any kind seems in fact to be in the back¬ 
ground. It is as difficult in looking down upon Naples, 
as in threading its streets, to realize that the past history 
of this city of the present mounts up to an antiquity of 
not far from a thousand years before Christ. We seem 
to be standing upon soil unquestionably Italian. And 
yet this city was for ages not Italian, but Greek, and re¬ 
tained even under Roman rule, and down to the middle 
ages, many features of Greek life. There were influences, 
too, from the East, through Constantinople, and through 
the Saracens, when once they had possessed themselves 
of Sicily. Add the Normans, the Germans, the French, 
the Spaniards, and it is no wonder that Naples should 
differ absolutely from the Italian cities of the North. 

From San Martino we descend to the level of the city 
below, and turn in the direction of the harbor, reaching 
at last the Strada Nuova * near the Immacolatella, to 
make a closer acquaintance with those busy streets of 
which we had a glimpse on landing from our steamer. 

9. Washday, a House in the Old Town. 

Certainly the streets of Naples are a never-ending 
source of entertainment, and it would be a strange party 

•See map 2. 


40 



2 


NAPLES 


No. 2 


that did not find itself very much alive to the human in¬ 
terest of this passing show. To be indifferent to all this 
would be to shut eyes and ears—and nose—to the larger 
and far more animated half of Naples, with its perpetual 
hubbub, the beating of starved horses and braying of 
much-abused donkeys, the clatter over atrocious pave¬ 
ments, the excited voices, seeming at first to threaten a 
murder at every corner. 

No quarter of the city makes a more striking display 
of all these features of a life which is emphatically of to¬ 
day, and yet differs but little from what it has always 
been on these sunny shores. It is a life in the open, ex¬ 
cept when rain or fierce heat drives their swarming in¬ 
habitants back into these tall cavernous hives. 

But let us stop here and take a closer look at a Neapol¬ 
itan house, for it offers too great a variety to be taken 
in at a glance. Fortunately this particular street is very 
wide, with no tall houses opposite to shut out the spring 
sunshine. Of course we are prepared to find such a 
house a perfect ant-hill, occupied by untold inhabitants. 
Below we see the shops, in one of which (on the left) we 
could fill our pockets with wax matches, or order that 
great cartload of charcoal in sacks. Before the central 
archway a fruit dealer has established himself, while a 
hawker is wheeling his handcart past two more small 
shops, displaying their wares in broad doorways. Behind 
lies a court approached through the large arch, by which 
one reaches the long flights of stairs, where odors of gar¬ 
lic and cooking are only the most savory that can be 
mentioned, forever ascending to heaven. 

Above the shops we count five stories of cramped but 
high-ceiled tenements. The windows are tall and nar¬ 
row, opening like doors upon a balcony. Without a bal¬ 
cony no Neapolitan family, except the poorest, could 

41 


No. 2 


ITALY 


Map 


possibly survive. Where else could flower-pots and 
boxes find their places ? Or where hang the family wash¬ 
ing, except from balcony to balcony ¥ By its means also 
the family is never more at home than when out of doors. 
In a part of the three upper floors, but back from the 
street front, the place of the balcony is taken by wide- 
arched loggias, as they are called, enabling the occupants 
of these floors to live in the open air, although so far 
above the street. What matter ¥ A basket lowered by a 
rope, aided by stout lungs, and what sounds like the 
most voluble profanity, will bring up anything which 
the frugal heart can desire, or the harsh-tongued man 
with, the handcart can furnish. 

The longer we look the more we find in this house- 
front to make it a study in itself, hung as it is with the 
most varied assortment of objects. There are lace cur¬ 
tains of uncertain hue within, tattered raiment of every 
color without, cactus plants and flowers, unkempt women 
scolding from the balconies, and above all the ceaseless 
noise of the street, the bedlam of shouting and cursing 
and singing. This surely is Naples. 

We wander still further into the limitless East End 
of Naples, along the water-front, and pass the Villa del 
Popolo, the eastern counterpart of the great Villa Nazi- 
onale. On beyond, the Castel del Carmine is a relic of 
older times,—a fortress, now converted into barracks 
and a military prison. The street is the Marinella. 

3 . The I^azzaroni. 

We are looking back along the Marinella to the castle, 
the Carmine , at the end of the street. The sombre walls 
of the fortress, with its port-holes and prison windows, 

42 


2 


NAPLES 


No. 3 


contrast with the life and color of the scene before us. 
This broad street, entirely open on the harbor side, at our 
left, is one of the warmest spots in Naples. Hence it 
swarms with people, not merely passing to and fro as 
they go about their business, but just living out of doors. 
Many of the women have brought chairs and gathered in 
knots to talk volubly over their work, and to scold the 
swarming children and each other. Not a few of these 
people have no homes,—are, in fact, the beggars of the 
street, the lazzaroni . No one cares if the sidewalk is 
completely obstructed. The street itself is the only thor¬ 
oughfare, and that often filled with peddlers and hawk¬ 
ers. Down its whole length the scene is the same. Babies 
and children are everywhere, happy and noisy, dirty 
and picturesque. Rags and tatters, shock-heads, sun¬ 
burned faces, bare feet,—these are the swarms which 
will some day scatter to America, both North and South, 
to build the railways and aqueducts of the new world, to 
live on the most frugal fare until they have saved enough 
to return to Naples for the rest of their days, or perhaps 
to go back and forth a dozen times. 

But the city will be just as crowded as before, although 
large Italian quarters are growing up in every American 
city, and the Argentina has become almost an Italian 
land. It is this out-of-door life that they long for in less 
favored climates. To it all these gray and yellow house- 
fronts seem to be only a painted scene, serving merely 
as a background. But abundant provision is made for 
entrances and exits, since dark alleys open out at short 
intervals, leading away from the water-front in the direc¬ 
tion of the railway station. 

At this hour the balconies appear to be almost de¬ 
serted, but the ever-present washing hangs down from 
story to story. All the life is in the street, and the warm 

43 


No. 3 


ITALY 


Map 


sunshine and soft sea air make these street dwellers per¬ 
fectly happy. 

This group which flocks to the side of our carriage cer¬ 
tainly appears to be as happy as the day is long. They 
all know, to be sure, what hunger is, but that does not 
make them sullen. It is an every-day experience with 
them, and something to be laughed at, like everything 
else in their careless existence. The sight of the stranger 
is too good a diversion not to be enjoyed to the full, and 
shared with the babies. They are sure that for some 
display of pertness, or for a pretty face and winning 
smile, there will be substantial rewards in the form of 
coppers. The art of begging gracefully and persuasively 
is certainly well understood by the children of Naples, 
and usually they have not yet learned to insist and an¬ 
noy, or to display their dirt or deformity, as do their 
elders. Begging in this child-like fashion is as natural 
as to live the whole day in the sunshine, to sleep in a 
doorway, to wear a few old rags mismated, and eat a 
crust of bread with an onion, and call it dinner. 

From the harbor and the Marinella we wander back in 
the direction of the railway and the Porta Nolana , with 
an eye for everything which makes the life of these busy, 
noisy, dusty streets. 

4. A Street Macaroni Restaurant. 

Before such a group as this it is a serious question 
whether we are not furnishing these Neapolitans with 
more amusement than they provide for us. There are 
keen eyes for every peculiarity of dress or figure, and 
honest staring is with them no reproach. There are also 
many smiles and nudges as they remark to one another 
upon the ways of the strange and incomprehensible 

44 


2 


NAPLES 


No. 4 


Americani. But we came to see, not to be seen, and must 
learn to be stared at and talked about with the greatest 
composure. It is all good-humored, at any rate, even 
where there seems at first a certain rudeness. 

By this curbstone stall are standing two boys of the 
street, an old man and a girl, all dipping busily into 
steaming plates of macaroni. Not one of them is troubled 
because the establishment does not furnish a table and 
chairs, a waiter, or even knives and forks. There are no 
fees to cast their ominous shadow over the dinner,—no 
long waiting, no poring over bills of fare. Eating is here 
a return to Nature,—a plate, some macaroni, a hand, a 
mouth,—nothing more. But try it, and you will find 
that there is one other thing which they have and you 
have not. It is the skill to convey this weedy mass to your 
lips gracefully, without losing it as fast as you gather 
it up. 

The curly-headed boy poses as though he had done 
duty for an artist’s model. The old man, too, is absorbed 
in his frugal dinner, but smiles a smile of satisfaction, 
in spite of the fact that he seems to be nearing the bot¬ 
tom of the dish. The other boy is thinking much more 
about us than his macaroni, and looks as if he knew a 
dozen ways of enticing coppers from the pockets of the 
strangers who, by and by, will be ready to do anything 
in order to be rid of his attentions and offered services. 
The girl has the Neapolitan head of black hair, combed 
in great rolls by the skill of the hairdresser. For in 
Italy plain gowns and elaborate hairdressing often go 
together, and hats are conspicuous by their absence. 

Behind this busy row of patrons is the stall itself, its 
centre a slab of white marble with an inlaid pattern,— 
a vase and flowers. Above is a great array of brass and 
copper braziers, pans, and what not. Pompeii itself 

45 


No. 5 


ITALY 


Map 


could scarcely rival that three-legged brass vessel in the 
centre, with its graceful handles and lion heads. All 
shine gaily in the sunlight and flash their invitation 
down the street. 

Back in the shadow of the awning stand mine host and 
his assistant, the one absorbed in contemplation of the 
steam rising from the great pan before him; the other, 
in slouch hat and crumpled apron, is keeping an eye up¬ 
on us, not without traces of half-suppressed amusement. 
Others, too, crowd in on either side to complete this 
motley group. The smallest crowd in Italy has always 
the largest outskirts. Where the macaroni is, there will 
the Neapolitans gather to the end of time. 

5 . A Narrow Street. 

Wandering about the streets we find many typical 
scenes,—none more so than this vista. It seems like a 
canon, rather than a street, with tall houses and deep 
shadows, and thronging inhabitants. One might think 
that the street was meant for foot-passengers only, so 
completely do they take possession of the thoroughfare. 
But let a cab suddenly appear, and a way is cleared, not 
without a cracking whip and impatient cries from the 
driver. It is even possible for two cabs to pass, but such 
an event creates something of a sensation, and hubs are 
sure to come into close quarters with open doors and 
boxes and stalls, if not also with each other. Yet some 
important streets, constantly crowded with people and 
vehicles, are no wider than this. 

Balconies are less numerous than in the broader 
streets, or where there is a southern exposure, as is the 
case with this corner house on the right, where the wall 
is adorned by rows of straw-covered wine-flasks hanging 

46 


2 


NAPLES 


No. 5 


in the sun. There are plants, too, by the half-open win¬ 
dows, and these curved brackets of iron, supporting a 
rod which runs the length of the balcony, or where there 
is none, from side to side of the window. Some are very 
simple, others fantastic, as though forgetful of their 
practical purpose,—for hanging out the family clothes 
to dry. But lines are also carried across the street, to 
make their display of linen to the sun, which will soon 
have left this street in darkness, its native element. 

There is an eastern look about it all, quite apart from 
the dirt and odors of an unswept street. At the corner 
boys and men have gathered in groups, while one boy 
has climbed to the top of a door to sun himself on his* 
high, and not altogether comfortable, perch. 

At last we have made the acquaintance of these 
crowded lanes, which appeared to be mere lines of black¬ 
ness, as we saw them from the height of San Martino.* 
Black and forbidding they are, when seen close at hand, 
and filled with sounds and smells which do not tempt the 
stranger to linger in a quarter where he can neither stop 
nor go on without causing a crowd to gather. But this, 
after all, represents a large part of the living Naples, 
as of southern and eastern cities in general, and we 
shall appreciate the vast spaces of the Museum, peopled 
with its silent figures of the past, all the more after being 
jostled in these cramped streets. 

From the eastern quarter—from any quarter of Na¬ 
ples—to the Museum seems a long distance, to be tra¬ 
versed in the little cabs which jolt unmercifully over 
deep-rutted pavements. Once within the huge building 
we are lost amid the embarrassment of its artistic riches, 
—above all, the sculptures. 


•See No. 1. 


47 



No. 6 


ITALY 


Map 


6. The Farnese Hercules, National Museum. 

This colossal statue of Herakles (Hercules), repre¬ 
sents the hero as resting after the completion of his 
famous “ labors ”,—the twelve tasks imposed upon him 
before he could free himself from the service of Eurys- 
theus. The last of the labors (in some versions of the 
tale) had been the quest of the golden apples of the Hes- 
perides. From the farthest West, where these daughters 
of Atlas kept the golden apples under the guard of a 
dragon, Hercules was to bring them back to Mycenae. 
After long wanderings he came to Atlas, the Titan, who 
supported the heavens upon his shoulders. While Her¬ 
cules relieves him of this onerous task, Atlas goes to 
the garden of the Hesperides and brings back the three 
apples. By trickery Hercules persuades Atlas to shoul¬ 
der his great burden again, and returns to Greece with 
his prize. 

In the statue the hero stands leaning upon his club, 
from which the lion’s skin is hanging. The right hand 
behind the back holds one of the apples. The whole ex¬ 
pression is of weariness after the performance, not of 
this one task simply, but of all the twelve. It is not the 
joy of the victor that is written in the lines of this colos¬ 
sal figure, but complete exhaustion after uninterrupted 
effort. Every muscle in the whole mighty frame is ex¬ 
aggerated to the utmost expression of Herculean 
strength. The neck is the neck of an ox, and every line 
and fold speak of unlimited power. But this vast 
strength has been so strenuously exerted that now not 
one atom is left in reserve. 

The sculptor has inscribed his name upon the rock. 
It was Glykon, an Athenian, who lived at Rome about the 
time of Christ, perhaps later. In common with other 
sculptors of his day, he endeavored to revive the spirit 

48 


2 


NAPLES 


No. 6 


of older Attic sculpture, and the models which he chose 
to imitate in this, his best known work, went back to the 
famous Lysippos, in the time of Alexander the Great, 
For it seems to have been Lysippos who first introduced 
this type of the exhausted, melancholy Hercules, lost in 
reflection now that his labors are over, and peace and 
freedom have followed his mighty exertions,—the vic¬ 
tory won, but the victor spent. 

Like the Farnese Bull,* the Hercules was found at 
Rome in the 16th century in the baths of Caracalla,f and 
long adorned the collection of the Farnese family at 
Rome, until 1786, when it was brought to Naples. 

On the walls behind the statue we see a host of ancient 
inscriptions, mostly from tombs. In the corner to the 
right, beneath the word latium, is a marble slab 
which tells a tale from Roman history. It is a mere 
fragment, but even from this distance enough can be 
made out in these clear letters to show that this was part 
of an inscription in honor of old Marius, mentioning his 
triumphs over Jugurtha in Africa, and over the Cimbri 
and the Teutons, the German invaders of Italy (102-101 
B. C.). In such historic stones the Naples Museum is very 
rich, as well as in Greek sculpture, in paintings and 
bronzes from Pompeii. And these inscriptions upon the 
walls of the galleries often point the contrast between the 
artistic triumphs of Greece and the material conquests 
of Rome. 

7 . The Farnese Bull, National Museum . 

This great group ranks next in celebrity after the Lao- 
coon of the Vatican.^ It was brought to Rome from the 
island of Rhodes in the time of Augustus. At one time 


♦See No. 7. 
tSee No. 58. 
% See No. 31. 


49 



No. 7 


ITALY 


Maps 


it adorned the Baths of Caracalla* in the ruins of which 
it was found in the 16th century. The sculptors were 
Apollonios and Tauriskos, of Tralles, in Asia Minor, and 
lived in the Alexandrian age. But first the story, and 
then the sculpture. 

Amphion and Zethus were the twin sons of Zeus and 
Antiope. Separated from their mother the twins grew up 
among shepherds, while she was persecuted by Lykos, 
King of Thebes, and his wife Dirke. Antiope at last es¬ 
caped and came to the shepherd’s home, where her sons 
were still living, but was not recognized by them. Dirke, 
coming to the same spot in the forest, finds the fugitive 
Antiope, and plans to have her tortured to death by be¬ 
ing bound to the horns of a wild bull. Amphion and 
Zethus are about to carry out her orders and execute 
the sentence, when the old shepherd tells the secret of 
their birth and exposure. In vengeance the twins in¬ 
flict upon Dirke the very same punishment which she 
had devised for their mother, Antiope. But the god 
Dionysus intervenes, and Dirke is changed into a foun¬ 
tain near Thebes. This is the story which the sculptors 
have wrought into the group now before us. 

At the right stands Amphion, perched upon the rocks 
which represent Cithaeron, the scene of the story. With 
the strength of a hero he holds the fierce bull by one 
horn and the muzzle. To the horns is attached the rope 
which Zethus holds in his right hand, while with his left 
he seizes the hair of Dirke, who is being bound, that she 
may be dragged to her death by the bull. Dirke as a 
suppliant clasps the knee of Amphion, and implores 
them to spare her life. 

In the background, at the right, stands the mother, 
Antiope, calm and indifferent to the whole scene, showing 


♦See No. 58. 


50 



NAPLES 


No. 7 


2, 4 

no trace of joy at her own escape, nor exultation over 
the impending death of one who has so long persecuted 
her. But this figure has been restored almost entirely 
by the hand of a modern sculptor under the direction of 
Michael Angelo. In fact, the whole group was so mu¬ 
tilated when first discovered as to need extensive restora¬ 
tion. 

Interest centres in the athletic figures of the twins, in 
their heroic struggle with the infuriated bull, whereas 
Dirke appeals less to our sympathy, as the victim of a 
punishment she had wickedly devised for another. Beau¬ 
tiful as is her figure, it may be said that both Dirke and 
Antiope are mere pendants to the twin heroes. 

The small form of the shepherd boy below, on the 
right, represents the personification of Mount Githaeron, 
and is an unmoved spectator of the scene. Before him 
hangs his Pan’s pipe. Above, and against the tree-trunk, 
is Amphion’s lyre in the ancient form,—a tortoise-shell 
with a pair of horns for a frame. This attribute was 
intended to identify the figure above it as the cultivated, 
music-loving brother, while Zethus was the rough woods¬ 
man and hunter,—hence the hound. The round basket, 
to the left of the dog, was the symbol of the festival of 
Dionysus, which had been rudely interrupted by this 
scene of violence. 

In many ways this group is related to the Laocoon,— 
most of all in the attempt to represent a moment of in¬ 
tense physical stress. 


VESUVIUS 

From Naples one usually drives, through the eastern 
suburbs of the city, skirting the bay, over the worst of 
roads to Portici and Resina, a distance of half-a-dozen 
miles. The latter lies over Herculaneum, but the remains 


51 


No. 8 


ITALY 


Map 


of the ancient city are buried so far beneath the deposits 
of successive eruptions, hardened into rock, that the small 
excavated portion has been recovered only with the great¬ 
est labor, and by operations which resemble mining far 
more than simple excavation. The theatre, for example, 
lies some eighty-five feet below the present level of the 
ground. But the very fact that excavations have always 
been so difficult at Herculaneum insures more valuable 
finds than have been made at Pompeii, where the surviv¬ 
ors of the eruption were enabled to ransack the ruins 
immediately after the disaster. Unhappily, there is no 
immediate prospect of a thorough exploration of the site 
of Herculaneum. It was here that many of the choicest 
bronzes of the Naples Museum were found; also the fa¬ 
mous library of papyrus rolls (1752), of which many 
have been deciphered. 

Near the small excavations of Herculaneum the road 
to Vesuvius* turns off to the left and begins to ascend 
through vineyards and gardens. With many windings 
we climb up by the side of the great lava-stream of 1871. 

8 . The Sea of Lava at the Base of Vesuvius . 

We leave the road for a moment to examine more 
closely the remains of this volcanic outflow. It is a sea 
of blackness,—dark masses, seamed and scarred and 
twisted into every shape. It suggests not so much a river 
of lava as a great black glacier, which gradually ceased 
to move. Nothing is harder to realize from its present 
condition than that it once was molten, flowing down to¬ 
ward the sea. The abomination of desolation could not 
be more dead. And yet wild flowers and grasses are 
found even here, doing their best to reclaim for Nature 
and life these barren rocks from the centre of the earth. 


•See map 4. 


52 



4 


VESUVIUS 


No. 8 


Almost every one of them shows long folds and furrows 
upon its upper surface. 

That block upon which the boy is standing enables us 
to see how the whole lava stream appeared while the cool¬ 
ing process was bringing all surface motion to a stand¬ 
still, and before the cooling below the surface produced 
the great cracks and seams, which divided the once solid 
mass into these mighty fragments, strewn, as it were, 
broadcast down the mountain side. 

We shall have no ambition to climb over these 
jagged rocks stretching away up the slope toward the 
great cone which towers above. It looks like nothing so 
much as a monstrous heap of ashes, as in fact it is. On 
the right we have the dark line of the cable railway, the 
funicolare , and at its top we can clearly make out the 
upper station, and estimate its distance from the crater. 
The rim of the crater is veiled in a breath of smoke, 
slowly curling down. 

Such a scene of ruin as we have before us is an im¬ 
pressive reminder of the destructive power of a vol¬ 
cano, especially when one remembers that before the 
great eruption of A. D. 79 the slopes of the mountain 
were green and smiling, covered with gardens and vine¬ 
yards to the very top. The ruin wrought in one age is 
slowly repaired, thanks to Nature’s ability to heal her 
own wounds. But then comes another eruption, and all 
is once more devastated. At present about one-half of 
the mountain slopes show the ruin caused at some time 
or other by the streams of lava. At certain points they 
have even reached the sea. On the landward side the 
Monte Somma has proved a barrier against destruction 
in this form. 

Returning from the lava stream of 1871-1872 to the 
53 


No. 9 


ITALY 


Map 


road, we. continue to climb up to the Observatory, where 
the movements of the volcano and the slightest tremors 
of earthquake are carefully observed and recorded. This 
is about half way up the mountain,—2,220 feet above 
the sea, and some 2,000 feet lower than the crater. At 
the Observatory begins the road built by the owners of 
the cable railway, who exact a heavy toll of those who 
have not purchased tickets for the ascent. 

9 . On the Road to Vesuvius . 

We are now nearing the end of the road, and have the 
lower station of the cable railway straight before us. The 
white buildings stand out against the blackness of the 
cone. We have climbed some 2,600 feet above the sea. 
Looking up the line of the railway we see an ascending 
and a descending car, which will soon pass each other in 
the centre. At the top are the white buildings of the up¬ 
per station. And still higher, and farther to the left, is 
the summit of the mountain. 

Of this immense ash-heap before us the greater part, 
if not the whole, has been formed since the mountain, 
after centuries of inactivity, resumed its career as a 
“ live ” volcano with the most memorable of all its erup¬ 
tions, that of the year 79, in the reign of the Emperor 
Titus. 

At that time the Monte Somma* (3,730 feet), was the 
crest of the mountain, being the highest point in the im¬ 
mense rim which had formed the crater of the prehistoric 
volcano. Within that vast crater was a great barren de¬ 
pression, including the site of the present cone. And 
that was the only part of Vesuvius which gave any evi¬ 
dence, by its blackened rocks, that the innocent moun¬ 
tain, cultivated from its base to the crater, had once been 


♦See No. 1. 


54 



4 


VESUVIUS 


No. 9 


an active volcano. But that age of greatest activity was 
long before the earliest records of human history on this 
coast. There had been an interval of centuries in which 
no one feared that danger might lurk beneath those 
green slopes. Premonitions came with a great earth¬ 
quake in Nero’s time, in the year 63. Sixteen years later 
the volcano resumed its activity, and has never since been 
extinct. 

Its most conspicuous achievement from our present 
point of view has been the throwing out of this vast heap 
of ashes,—not all at once, but in the course of centuries. 
At the summit, looking down into the crater, we shall 
have a still clearer idea of the infinite powers of even a 
modest volcano. For certainly Vesuvius is not one of the 
greatest, although few are more impressive, and none so 
historic. Etna itself, more than twice as high (above 
10,000 feet), is less imposing in outline, though in its 
vast bulk it seems to be a large part of Sicily. 

And then the recent tragedy in the West Indies has 
reminded us of other and more mysterious forces,—those 
of gas explosion, by which still greater ruin can be 
wrought than Vesuvius has ever inflicted upon the sur¬ 
rounding cities and towns, and that in an instant. This 
power Vesuvius also has in reserve, but as it has never 
been used on any great scale, we may borrow from the in¬ 
habitants something of their sense of security, and assure 
ourselves that this volcano at least is comparatively well- 
behaved,—or has been for the past thirty years. Yet 
some day this beautiful coast may have its awakening, as 
did Martinique and St. Vincent. 

io. The Crater of Vesuvius. 

At last we have climbed from the upper station of the 
railway to the crater itself, and creeping cautiously 

55 


No. 10 


ITALY 


Maps 


towards the brink we look down into the depths which 
no man has ever sounded, or ever will. Down, down into 
the depths of the earth, it seems ready to swallow any 
thing which even approaches this huge mouth. On the 
opposite side a great black mass thrown up from beneath 
only serves to make the impression of infernal grandeur 
more complete. To the left the chasm yawning beneath 
our feet; on the right white vapor ascending harmlessly 
from the pit,—nothing else. It is a day when the moun¬ 
tain is not “ working,” as the people say,—when no 
black column of smoke rises skyward. Only the light 
film of vapor creeps over the margin of the crater and 
down the mountain side. 

For the open crater of a volcano, could anything be 
more peaceful ? But is it the peace which follows stormy 
outbursts, or the peace which is the prelude to another 
eruption ? And will that be the innocent spectacle which 
merely serves to fill all the hotels, or a great eruption, 
throwing out vast rocks many tons in weight, along with 
showers of smaller stones and ashes, such as buried Pom¬ 
peii in their gray drifts? Or this time will there be in¬ 
credible volumes of explosive gases, such as might even 
destroy Naples in a moment, in spite of the security born 
of centuries of experience? 

If the truth were told, we are thinking less about any 
of these things than of what might happen to ourselves. 
We cannot help wondering whether this harmless steam 
might suddenly change into a column of suffocating gas; 
whether this margin of the crater itself is safe from the 
danger of crumbling suddenly away, and carrying us 
with it into the fiery depths below. If by any improbable 
chance the latter should happen, we may console our¬ 
selves with the reflection that we should have lost all con¬ 
sciousness, thanks to the merciful vapors, long before we 

56 


POMPEII 


No. 10 


4, 3 

had reached the fires beneath. And we should not leave 
our shoes behind, as legend says of Empedocles, the Sicil¬ 
ian philosopher, when he threw himself into the crater of 
Mt. Etna! 

It is an experience, and a memorable one, to stand on 
the verge and look down into the unexplored regions, 
and think of these elemental forces stored up, no one 
knows where, in the hollows of the earth, and at times 
kept under such perfect control, at other times unre¬ 
strained beyond the power of man’s imagination to con¬ 
ceive. Some day scientific observation, continued 
through patient centuries, will remove in part, if not 
completely, our present cloud of ignorance. For our¬ 
selves, we have peered over the edge, and seen all that 
even the scientist is able as yet to see,—the murky gate¬ 
way of the unknown. 


POMPEII 

While other ancient cities have been brought to light 
more recently in many quarters of the old Roman world, 
Pompeii still retains its preeminence as the most perfect 
picture of domestic life and manners in the first century 
of the Christian era. In the middle ages the very site 
had been forgotten. It was not until 1748 that the acci¬ 
dental discovery of some bronzes and statues led the 
King of Naples to begin regular excavations, at first with 
the sole motive of enriching his collection of works of 
ancient art. Since 1861 the unearthing of Pompeii has 
been conducted in the most systematic manner, and the 
whole aim is to display the life of an ancient city, down 
to the last detail. While many fresco-paintings have 
been removed to Naples, those which are now discovered 
are retained in their original position. And the same 

57 


No. 11 


ITALY 


Map 


method is also employed sometimes for other objects of 
value. All the museums of the world fail to conjure up 
before our eyes the ghost of ancient life and civilization, 
when compared with the impression of reality which is 
made upon one in walking through the streets of Pom¬ 
peii. It is all so tangible, so near, as though a single step 
had carried us right back into the distant past. And if 
the vacant streets are unpeopled, it is a striking fact that 
these ruins are visited every year by a number of travel - 
are equal, or nearly equal, to the ancient population of 
the town (about 30,000). It need not surprise us then 
to find that Pompeii has its own railway station on the 
line from Naples to Salerno, the line which skirts the 
shore of the bay at the foot of Vesuvius. An entrance 
with custodians and stiles will not surprise us either, but 
we are glad to escape these modern things, decline the 
services of the official guides, and climb the road which 
leads to the Porta Marina* the gate of the ancient city. 
Without delay we go on up the steep street to the Forum. 


ii. The Forum of Pompeii, and Vesuvius. 

We are looking down the length of the market-place, 
or Forum, of Pompeii. But the eye is carried at once 
northward to the furthest distance, where old Vesuvius 
towers up above us. There is no smoke to-day, to ob¬ 
scure the outline of the cone. On the right is the jagged 
ridge of Monte Somma. Every outline is perfectly sharp 
and clear, and the changing shades of blue indescribable. 
All that was dark and ominous in the nearer view is now 
lost in distance. 

It is not strange that Vesuvius should draw our atten- 


*See map 3. 


58 



3 


POMPEII 


No. 11 


tion away from the things which we were most intent 
upon seeing. Certainly in the tragedy of Pompeii the 
leading part was taken by the volcano, which the citizens 
who traded and gossiped in this market-place had always 
regarded as a harmless neighbor. And to-day one cannot 
look down the Forum to the mountain without the 
thought that history might any day repeat itself, and 
bring to naught all the labor that has been expended in 
the last century and a half in excavating one-half of the 
buried city. But still the impression which this city of a 
bygone age has made upon the modern world would 
never be forgotten. By its revelations ancient life has 
been made to live for us with such vividness that it can 
never again become a mere matter of book-learning. 

This market-square is deserted, to be sure, except for 
the tourists and students who come from every country 
to express their wonder and interest in all the civilized 
languages. The hum of trade and town politics will never 
again be heard in this, the centre of Pompeian life. The 
buildings which surround this long open place are mere 
wrecks of their former selves. But plan and arrange¬ 
ment are clear, and little imagination is needed to recon¬ 
struct the Temple of Jupiter at the other end of the 
Forum, with its six fluted columns rising above a broad 
flight of steps; or the triumphal arches on either side, 
and the long colonnade in two stories down the left side 
(west), or the similar, but less regular, portico of the 
right side (east). And the empty spaces we may people 
with the statues which once stood upon these vacant ped¬ 
estals. The large one at our feet—a mass of concrete, 
facqd with brick and stone in the net-work pattern—is 
thought to have borne the statue of Agrippina, the 
mother of Nero. The broken column just before us be- 

59 


No. 11 


ITALY 


Map 


longed to the colonnade, which crossed this end of the 
Forum also. 

On our right a large patch of the ancient flagging, with 
its curb, remains,—so also in the distance near the east¬ 
ern triumphal arch. Here and there a single flagstone re¬ 
mains. The rest have not crumbled away, but were 
probably removed in the very first excavations immedi¬ 
ately after the eruption, as were also the precious mar¬ 
bles which adorned the walls of the public buildings on 
the east side of the Forum, and the triumphal arches and 
pedestals. For the city was not completely covered, but 
only to a depth of about twelve feet, of which one-half 
consisted of small pumice stones, while the upper stratum 
was of ashes. The owners, therefore, if they had sur¬ 
vived, or speculators and contractors, could return and 
remove for building purposes whatever remained above 
ground, that is, the upper stories of the houses, the com¬ 
plete disappearance of which is thus readily accounted 
for. They could also dig down to the old level in search 
of valuables, and carry away marble slabs and other 
stones. 

The area of the Forum was closed to vehicles of every 
kind, but for that reason all the better adapted to its 
proper purposes, as the focus of the municipal and com¬ 
mercial life of the town, as the general gathering-place 
of its citizens. 

At the further end, to left and right, lay markets for 
vegetables, meats and fish. Near us on our right the 
portico gave entrance to the market for woolen-stuffs, 
erected by the generosity of a woman, Eumachia. Other 
public buildings adjoined the Forum on each side, but 
the most conspicuous is the Temple of Jupiter, which 
seems from its elevated base to command the entire 
space. Before it is a long platform obstructing the steps. 

60 


3 


POMPEII 


No 11 


This probably served for the rostra , or speaker’s plat¬ 
form, from which orators addressed the townspeople,— 
another imitation of Rome, though Pompeii never made 
its mark in oratory. 

But the Forum of Rome* was far less orderly and sym¬ 
metrical in its arrangement than that of this provincial 
town, which gives us so good an idea of the Italian town 
of nineteen centuries ago. 

We look again, and out of this silence conjure up to 
ourselves the stir and bustle of a market-day in old Pom¬ 
peii. But after all it is like those wonderful night pho¬ 
tographs of some public square in New York or Wash¬ 
ington, taken by electric light with long exposure, while 
hundreds of people have passed in every direction, with¬ 
out leaving one trace of themselves upon the photo¬ 
graphic plate, which shows only the familiar buildings, 
standing in solemn stillness, deserted by every sign of hu¬ 
man life. 

We walk the length of the Forum, under the 
triumphal arch at the east side of the Temple of Jupiter, 
and follow a street which leads straight from the Forum 
to the wall of the city on the north. One block brings 
us to the little Temple of Fortune, and turning to the 
right we are in the long street which leads to the Nola 
Gate, and is called first Fortune Street and then Nola 
Street. 

12. The Street of Fortune. 

It is a long vista down this street, with its 
ancient paving just as it was on that fatal day in the 
year 79. The broad ruts worn in the large lava blocks 
of the pavement by the wheels of ancient carts are most 

♦See Nos. 21, 32, 41 


61 



No. 12 


ITALY 


Map 


real and unmistakable. They call up images of long 
processions of carts and wagons fleeing to places of 
safety, or, in happier times, bringing the produce of the 
country into Pompeii. 

Between Pompeii and Nola—lying off to the north¬ 
east—there was an active trade, and much of it must 
have passed through this street. It was by this 
street, and the Nola road beyond, that the traveler from 
Pompeii could most directly reach that great thorough¬ 
fare, the Appian Way, near Capua, beyond Nola. 
Hence no small part of the travel between Rome and 
Pompeii must have been by this long street, which speaks 
of its ancient importance in these eloquent stones, worn 
with generations of use, and then preserved intact for 
many centuries. 

Across the corner we see the great stepping-stones, 
which also appear again and again as we look down the 
street. Those at our feet have been partly removed. They 
are a regular feature of the Pompeian street, and spared 
the foot-passenger the trouble of stepping down from 
the broad curbstones to the level of the paving. To wag¬ 
ons and carts they were less of an obstacle than one 
might suppose, since the beasts of burden were more 
loosely harnessed and had greater freedom to step be¬ 
tween the stones. One must assume, however, that fast 
driving and runaways were strictly forbidden in Pom¬ 
peii. 

Pew of the streets are quite so worn as this particular 
spot of pavement. In general the thoroughfares of Pom¬ 
peii were about as well kept as those of Naples, or the 
smaller towns of the region to-day. The present street 
has uncommonly broad sidewalks. In many other cases 
there is not much more than the width of the curb. The 
houses come out invariably to the line of the sidewalks. 


62 


3 


POMPEII 


No. 12 


These wide doors are those of shops, the narrower open¬ 
ings giving access to the house itself, which usually lies 
behind. 

For every shop we must supply some kind of a counter, 
like our macaroni stall in Naples,* and almost reaching 
the inner margin of the sidewalk. In many cases they 
were faced with marble, and still remain. Shopping was 
thus, as it is to-day in South Italy and the East, a mere 
matter of sauntering down the street, with the blissful 
assurance that there is no need of entering the shop, since 
it probably contains nothing which you cannot see from 
the street. Everything was displayed so as to attract the 
attention of the passer-by. 

On our left, after a number of shop fronts, we have a 
more pretentious doorway, with tall pilasters. That is 
the door of the House of the Faun, one of the great 
houses of Pompeii, belonging unquestionably to some old 
family. For it dates in the main from the second cen¬ 
tury B. C., and was not less than two hundred years old 
at the time of its destruction,—or rather respectable in¬ 
terment in clean pumice and ashes. Of extraordinary size 
and stateliness, this house with the adjoining shops oc¬ 
cupies an entire block, or 11 island ” (insula), as the 
Romans more picturesquely called it. Besides two atria, 
or central halls, it has also two peristyles, or colonnaded 
courts, one of them of great size for a town-house. But 
the chief ornament of the house was the celebrated floor- 
mosaic, now in the Museum at Naples, representing Al¬ 
exander in battle with Darius,—a mosaic copy, that is, 
of some famous historical painting. 

Behind the door of the House of the Faun a modern 
roof has been erected, as in other houses of Pompeii, 


•See No. 4. 


63 


No. 12 


ITALY 


Map 


to protect valuable frescoes from the weather. On the 
right are other houses, hiding themselves behind their 
shops. 

But just at the street corner on our right is the small 
temple of Fortuna Augusta , standing as usual with 
Roman temples, upon a high platform approached only 
by steps from in front. The marble blocks and slabs, 
which once faced the walls and covered the steps, have 
been removed, except for a few fragments. One beautiful 
Corinthian capital of the time of Augustus is placed in 
the corner, but base and column have disappeared. It 
was in honor of Augustus that this particular goddess 
of fortune received her title Augusta , and her priests 
were chosen from the slaves and the freedmen. By such 
means the emperor contrived to secure the loyal devotion 
of even the humbler classes. 

On our way towards the Herculaneum Gate we pass 
some of the best known houses in Pompeii,—that of the 
Tragic Poet (the house of Glaucus in the “ Last Days of 
Pompeii ”) and the great House of Pansa, covering an 
entire insula , also a baking and milling establishment, 
and the House of Sallust. Passing through the city-gate 
we descend along the road to Herculaneum, the thorough¬ 
fare which linked—in their prosperity and in their de¬ 
struction—the two unlucky “ cities of the plain.’’ 

13. The Street of Tombs. 

The road is paved, after the manner of streets within 
the walls, with large polygonal blocks of lava, here less 
worn by traffic than near the Temple of Fortune, but 
still capable of producing most decided jolts, if wheeled 
vehicles were allowed in the silent streets of the un¬ 
earthed Pompeii. Instead of the broad, flat curb which 

64 


3 


POMPEII 


No. 13 


we saw within the city, we have by the roadside a less 
regular curbing, interrupted at frequent intervals by 
higher stones, serving as mounting-blocks. But why they 
are so many in number, has never been satisfactorily ex¬ 
plained. Sidewalks are wider than was the rule in the 
city. 

But the special feature of this street is the tombs, 
which line the road on either side, as was the custom out¬ 
side the gates of Rome, and of every Italian town. On the 
right is a massive tomb in solid masonry, dating from the 
time of Sulla, and the days when Pompeii became a Ro¬ 
man colony (80 B. C.). It is known as the Tomb of the 
Garlands, from the sculptured festoons, one of which we 
see upon the nearer face. Before it lie carved fragments 
from another tomb near by. Then comes a semi-circular 
niche, facing the road,—possibly a tomb, for the urn con¬ 
taining the ashes may have been placed in a chamber be¬ 
neath ; but its exact use remains uncertain. It contained 
a bench, and was adorned with pilasters in stucco, and a 
stuccoed ceiling. 

Shops follow, since in this street of tombs the peace of 
the dead was broken by the trade of the living. At the 
fork of the road a large arch marks the beginning of an 
arcade, with more shops and drinking-houses. In the tri¬ 
angle between the two roads are other tombs,—to the left 
of these the sentry-box of the custodian, who guards the 
ruins from the depredations of the souvenir-hunter. 

On the left the road is also lined with tombs, broken 
at two points by villas, to one of which the name of Cicero 
has been attached without the slightest reason. The so- 
called Villa of Diomedes lies beyond the tall cypress. Of 
the tombs in this left-hand group some are sufficiently 
picturesque to attract the artists. One of that guild sits 
here now on his folding stool, and endeavors to bring 

65 


No. 13 


ITALY 


Map 


away with him some impression of the dark cypresses, re¬ 
lieved by the white marble of those particular tombs,— 
in the distance white villages, dotting these lowest slopes 
of Vesuvius. 

In general one finds the tombs of Pompeii far less im¬ 
pressive than those which line the Appian Way near 
Rome. But without comparing small things with great— 
the Herculaneum Way with the “ Queen of Roads 
one may still find much to study with a quickened interest 
in this simple wayside cemetery. Certainly the buried 
city would lack its perfect completeness, if it witnessed to 
ancient life alone, and did not also recall every custom 
associated with death, and the strong desire that the 
tomb should not be in some secluded and dreamy spot, 
where few would come to read the epitaph, but by the 
most frequented way, that the passing multitude could 
not fail to mark the name, the career and virtues of the 
departed. 

Returning through the arched gateway into the city, 
we turn eastward along Mercury Street, towards the 
quarter where the most recent excavations have been 
made and where we may see the work actually in prog¬ 
ress. It goes on slowly and with great care, but some day 
the whole of Pompeii will be uncovered. Luckily the de¬ 
posit of ashes and scoriae has not hardened into rock, and 
the difficulty is no greater than in removing old ash- 
heaps, except that the greatest pains must be taken not 
to injure frescoed walls, and to sift everything that is 
taken out, that no objects of value may be lost. A pro¬ 
cession of men and boys carries away the ashes, and with 
the help of a miniature railway the debris is deposited 
in baskets without the walls. By this slow method is 
Pompeii being brought to light. That the most interest- 


66 


3 


POMPEII 


No. 14 


ing house yet discovered has been excavated within the 
last ten years seems a favorable omen for future dis¬ 
coveries. 

the Casa Nuova , or New House, more properly called 
the House of the Yettii, from its ancient owners, con¬ 
tains so many valuable features that it is treated as a 
small museum within the larger museum precinct of 
Pompeii itself. By the restoration of the peristyle and 
roofs over certain portions of the house the preservation 
of its precious frescoes is insured. 

14. House of the Vettii . 

We are here in the atrium , or hall of the house, looking 
through into the colonnaded court, or peristyle, which in 
this house comes close up to the atrium , instead of being 
separated from it by an intervening room, the tablinum. 
A broad doorway and two smaller openings unite these 
two essential features of the house. In the floor of the 
atrium is the impluvium, a small tank for water. As the 
roof of the atrium sloped inward from all sides to an 
opening (compluvium) , of the same size, the rain-water 
dripped directly into the impluvium , and was carried 
thence into a cistern. This atrium conforms to the usual 
type also in having no columns. With its lofty ceiling, 
admitting light through the open compluvium , and with 
its vista into the peristyle, it must have been a stately 
and attractive hall. The floor is of cement, into which 
a simple pattern was worked by inserting little cubes of 
white marble at regular intervals. The same white lines 
may be seen in the pavement of the peristyle. As though 
the three doorways were not sufficient, a great square 
window on the right added to the open and airy effect of 
this rarely interesting house. What remains of the fres- 

67 


No. 14 


ITALY 


Map 


coes against the piers of the doorways is now carefully 
protected by sheets of plate-glass. In the peristyle the 
railing is also not a restoration of anything of which 
fragments or traces have been found, but a mere neces- x 
sity, in order to keep the numerous visitors out of the 
garden. 

For in the open rectangle between the columns a gar¬ 
den has been laid out as much like the original as possi¬ 
ble, and the fountains—a whole series of them—have 
been restored to their old places. There are marble basins 
in the form of tables, supported by two heavy legs. There 
are graceful circular basins on slender pedestals. And 
by the columns stand tall bases from which little sculp¬ 
tured figures in bronze or marble sent jets of water into 
the nearest basins. To the right is a beautiful three- 
legged table in marble, with lions’ heads and feet. In 
the center the tiny marble column bears sculptured heads, 
or rather a head with two faces, Janus-like. 

To the ancient Italian taste, as to the modern, the plas¬ 
tic art was a real necessity of life, out of doors as well as 
indoors. And it was a poor garden, indeed, which did 
not have sculpture and fountains. Such a garden, with 
all its naive and toy-like features, was more intimately 
associated with the daily life of the household than are 
our gardens. It was not a place to stroll in after meal¬ 
times, but a spot to live in, whenever the weather per¬ 
mitted, and if not, then it could be enjoyed from the sur¬ 
rounding portico, or the rooms which opened off from it. 
For a southern climate it was surely a happy idea to 
bring the garden thus into the centre of the house, and 
have the whole life of the family revolve about it. Na¬ 
ture, as thus served up for domestic use, was, it is true, 
very far from the free Nature of the true out-of-doors. 

It was artificial and almost childish, but it held the affec- 


68 


3 


POMPEII 


No. 14 


tions of the family, and with the limitations of even the 
largest house, it would not be easy to lay out a garden 
which should be really natural in appearance, except 
perhaps a toy-garden after the Japanese method, with 
everything on a Liliputian scale. But that would be no 
less childish than these peristyle gardens of the Pom¬ 
peian house, with their figures and basins and tables, 
and the other artifices which seem to be doing their best 
to drive out Nature,—but unsuccessfully. 

The chief fame of the House of the Yettii is from its 
frescoes, which have become one of the principal attrac¬ 
tions of Pompeii. They are to be seen in nearly every 
part of the house, some on the opposite wall of the peri¬ 
style. But the most beautiful are in a large room to the 
right of the court. It is for the protection of the paint¬ 
ings that the large folding doors have been restored. 

In leaving the Casa Nuova one cannot fail to take 
away with him a lasting impression of the artistic sur¬ 
roundings in the midst of which the people of this small 
provincial town went about their daily tasks. 

The way to the amphitheatre from the House of the 
Vettii carries us at first through the streets of the ex¬ 
cavated city, and then among gardens which lie over the 
portion as yet uncovered. It is a long distance, since the 
amphitheatre was built at the extreme southeast angle 
of the city-wall. Unimpressive from without, owing to 
the low walls, the great structure is far more imposing 
from within, since the level of the arena was depressed 
some distance below the general level of the ground, 

15. The Amphitheatre. 

In one of the upper tiers we take our stand for this 
view down the long stretch of the arena, and over row 


69 


No. 15 


ITALY 


Map 


upon row of seats to Vesuvius, sharply outlined against 
the sky,—the broken ridge of Monte Somma to the left 
and behind the cone of the volcano. A light film of smoke 
is floating down the mountain side and away toward the 
Bay of Naples. One cannot help imagining for himself 
the scenes of the eruption, as witnessed from this point 
of view, in the midst of surroundings which would in¬ 
crease one’s sense of the spectacular elements in the 
tragedy. 

The immense ellipse of the arena is surrounded by a 
high wall to insure the safety of the spectators against 
attack by the wild beasts. It was originally covered 
with fresco-paintings representing combats of gladiators, 
or of wild animals. But these have perished since the 
amphitheatre was excavated and exposed to the weather. 
At the north end is a dark archway, like a tunnel, under 
the ascending seats. Close to these entrances—that to the 
north and its counterpart to the south—were the dens 
for the beasts. The seats' are divided vertically by the 
long flights of steps, making wedge-shaped sections 
which were hence called cunei. A more important divi¬ 
sion is that made by the horizontal aisles, of which there 
are two. First come five rows of seats. But in the mid¬ 
dle of the sides there are merely broad steps, upon which 
were to be placed the chairs brought in by the slaves of 
persons privileged to claim these, the most conspicuous 
seats,—namely, the municipal Senators. Low partitions 
divide these lower places into sections, to distinguish 
officials from common mortals. In the rear is a curved 
parapet, behind which runs the first of the horizontal 
aisles. This is not continuous, but plunges at intervals 
into the dark depths by means of stone stairs. Up these 
staircases those who had seats in this part of the house 

70 


3 


POMPEII 


No. 15 


climbed to the level of the aisle, and then by the narrow 
flights between the cunei to their proper places. There 
are twelve rows of these seats, after which we reach an¬ 
other horizontal aisle, and then eighteen more rows up 
to the enclosing wall, with its small arched openings. 
These highest rows were for women. The seats, while 
hard enough, no doubt, were not planned without some 
reference to comfort; for the front projects slightly, 
while a depression behind provides for the feet of those 
in the next row above. Of course the interest of all such 
details lies in the fact that these were the familiar ar¬ 
rangements at Rome, and in every provincial city, and 
not only for an amphitheatre, but for the theatre and the 
circus as well. In other words, wherever those immense 
crowds assembled, their comfort, convenience, and safety 
were secured by the means employed in this old amphi¬ 
theatre of Pompeii. 

Its capacity is estimated at 20,000, or about two-thirds, 
probably, of all the inhabitants. In length the structure 
measures some 440 feet. That it was filled with people 
at the first outbreak of the eruption has often been said, 
but on no sufficient authority. 

Here in this Campanian region gladiatorial exhibitions 
flourished at an early date, and nowhere was there more 
interest in the bloody sport. In their excitement over 
the victory or defeat of favorite gladiators the spectators 
sometimes fell out themselves. A fresco, now removed 
to Naples, represents the amphitheatre as it was in the 
days of Nero, with a serious riot between the Pompeians 
and their neighbors of Nuceria. 

Pompeii had its amphitheatre some forty years before 
Rome thought of erecting one,—the first, in the Campus 
Martius. The Colosseum* was begun a century later 


♦See No. 37. 


71 



No. 16 


ITALY 


Map 


still, and was as yet unfinished when the rain of pumice 
and ashes covered up the amphitheatre of Pompeii. 

Retracing our steps along the foot-path which winds 
through several gardens until it reaches the excavations, 
we follow the Strada dell’ Abbondanza to the south end 
of the Forum; and thence down the steep street leading to 
the Porta della Marina. Here is the small museum. But 
the artistic treasures of Pompeii are not to he found 
there. So far as they have not been left in their original 
places, as in the House of the Vettii, they have been re¬ 
moved to Naples. 

16. Casts of the Victims. 

The most striking objects in this little museum are 
these casts of victims of the eruption. So real are they 
in appearance that we seem to be transported to the 
scenes of desolation in the first days after the catastro¬ 
phe. It is difficult at first to appreciate the fact that 
they are merely casts, obtained by an ingenious method. 
The bodies of those who were suffocated by gases, or 
overcome in any other way, were buried under layers 
of fine pumice stones and then ashes, to the depth of 
twelve feet or more. Soon the surrounding mass had 
hardened sufficiently to keep the impress of the body, 
and in time decay left nothing but the bones lying in a 
cavity in the lowest depths of the pumice. From the 
hollow sound the excavators approaching such a cavity 
suspect its presence, and then, proceeding with great 
care, they make an opening, remove the bones, and pour 
in plaster of Paris, as into a mould. Then breaking 
away the surrounding mass, they have a complete cast 

72 


POMPEII 


No. 16 


of tlie nameless victim of that disaster so long ago, just 
as he was overtaken in a last effort to carry away his val¬ 
uables, or to save his own life. 

The tall jars in the cases against the wall are am- 
phone, or wine-jars, each with two handles and a slender 
body tapering to a point at the bottom, so that it could 
not stand alone. Other vessels of small size and varying 
shapes enrich this collection of Pompeian earthenware, 
but as these are to be found in every Italian museum, 
they scarcely draw attention for a moment from the cen¬ 
tral cases with their ghastly contents. 

The man before us must have struggled helplessly in 
the pumice drift, rising all about him, before death came 
to his release. When first produced a generation ago 
these casts aroused the greatest interest, and have been 
extensively illustrated in books in every language. But 
the present management of the excavations devotes itself 
to other things more important, and has no intention to 
increase this collection of grim reminders of the calamity. 
Popular interest in them has lessened, too, since the 
great eruption of Mount Pelee on the island of Mar¬ 
tinique in May, 1902,—a disaster recalling in many ways 
that which overtook the Campanian cities in the year 79, 
but on a vastly larger scale. For one day at Martinique, 
in fact, a single hour, destroyed some 30,000 lives, a num¬ 
ber probably equal to the entire population of Pompeii. 
And since we know from a detailed description of the 
eruption of Vesuvius by the Younger Pliny, in his cele¬ 
brated letters to Tacitus, that the tragedy of Hercu¬ 
laneum and Pompeii was long drawn out, it is assumed 
that far the larger number of its people had ample time 
to flee to a safe distance. Hence the estimate that the 
number of victims did not greatly exceed two thousand. 

But while St. Pierre completely outweighs Pompeii in 

73 


No. 17 


ITALY 


Map 


the scale of horrors, the eruption of Vesuvius will always 
remain more memorable, if not in the event itself, still 
for the unique result in preserving the perfect image of 
an ancient civilization for the delight and instruction of 
the present and the future. 

PJPSTTJM 

Passtum* is visited by travelers in the region of Naples, 
on account of three ancient Greek temples, picturesquely 
placed between the mountains and the sea. We make 
the journey by rail from Naples,—58 miles, or 24 miles 
beyond Salerno. The city itself dates from about six 
hundred years before Christ, when Greek colonists estab¬ 
lished themselves here, and named their city Poseidonia, 
after the god of the sea, Poseidon, the Neptune of the 
Romans. But the prosperity of the city, during which 
the existing temples were built, did not last much more 
than two hundred years. First their Italian neighbors 
came, and then the Romans, to rob the Greek city of its 
independence. A colony was established by the Romans, 
and the name changed to Paestum. But the Roman city 
too, was destined to a short-lived fame, subdued this 
time by the relentless enemy of this coast, the malaria. 
In the middle ages the columns and sculptures were 
carried from the abandoned city to adorn the churches 
of Salerno and other cities of the region. An amphi¬ 
theatre and a theatre fell into complete decay. Nothing 
of old Paestum was left but its walls and the three ven¬ 
erable ruined temples of the sixth and the fifth centuries 
before Christ. 

* 7 . Temple of Neptune. 

Here we seem to stand face to face with the remote 
past. Before us rises a Greek temple in the Doric style, 


•See map 1. 


74 



1 


PiESTUM 


No. 17 


built in honor of the sea-god, Poseidon, to whom the 
Greek colonists of these Italian shores might well have 
felt that they owed their commercial prosperity. Upon 
a low platform, three steps above the present level, six 
massive fluted columns support wide projecting capitals, 
and these heavy beams of stone, the architrave,—then a 
Doric frieze, a plain cornice and a pediment. Such is 
the front, in all its majestic simplicity. Down the length 
of the temple we may reckon twelve more columns, in 
addition to those which stand at the angles, and are com¬ 
mon to both front and side. The fewest words suffice to 
describe the main features of such a temple, constructed 
according to the mathematical rules of the Greeks. But 
the impression of the whole cannot be so readily formu¬ 
lated. It carries us right back to the old days when the 
many Greek colonists in Southern Italy all the way from 
Cumae, the oldest of their number, west of Naples, to 
Tarentum in the extreme south, were leavening the whole 
region with Greek culture and taste. 

Looking more closely we see that the columns are 
shorter, thicker at the base, and more tapering at the 
top than was the rule in the most finished Doric style, 
for instance in the Parthenon at Athens. They are only 
twenty-eight feet high, and yet seven and a half feet in 
diameter. Capitals, too, are heavier than in the best 
Athenian examples. Architrave and frieze also are more 
ponderous. The frieze has all the members prescribed 
by the Greek architects,—the projecting blocks (tri¬ 
glyphs), grooved to resemble beam-ends, and separated 
from each other by plain slabs (metopes). But the lat¬ 
ter show no trace of the usual sculpture,—nothing but 
the severe architectural forms. 

Within the temple, at one point, between the corner 
column to the left and a bit of broken wall, we may catch 


75 


No. 17 


ITALY 


Map 


a glimpse of the upper tier of inner columns. For the 
temple proper, or cella , within its inclosing colonnade, 
was adorned in the interior with a row of columns on 
either side. And these columns sustained smaller shafts 
in the same style, making a gallery to right and left. No 
other example of the Doric temple preserves this ar¬ 
rangement, so suggestive of church interiors in more re¬ 
cent times. Beyond the temple, but at some distance, lies 
the sea,—the southern portion of the Bay of Salerno. 

Time has given this venerable temple a rich brown 
coloring, which, by itself, would attract artists, if there 
were not so many other charms possessed by these soli¬ 
tary ruins, standing in solemn grandeur between the sea 
and the mountains. We seem to have left Italy far be¬ 
hind, and to be standing on Greek soil. Such it was, in 
fact, in the brilliant days of colonial Greece, when such 
temples as this were to be found all over the south of 
Italy and in Sicily. 

But the tide of life long ago ebbed away from Pies- 
tum, and the silence is like that of the grave. The roses, 
for which the city was famous in Roman times, have 
no wild descendants among these weeds. Custodians, 
who have left us to our own resources, and these ragged 
boys, have all a malarial look. Desolation is in the air,— 
a desolation which is less the work of time than of the 
deadly mosquito, at last discovered! 


SORRENTO PENINSULA 

From Paestum we return to Salerno,* for the drive 
around the Sorrento peninsula. We may drive, or walk, 
or take to a boat, but no other mode of locomotion will 


♦See map 4. 


76 



4 


SORRENTO PENINSULA 


No. 18 


ever be possible along these mountainous shores. The 
carriage road itself is of recent construction, and its more 
difficult section has been completed within ten years,— 
the portion from Amalfi to Sorrento. 

Between Salerno and Amalfi the road skirts the shore, 
wherever that is possible, but often it is obliged to turn 
inland for a time, among lemon groves, along the mar¬ 
gin of some mountain gorge, which it presently crosses, 
and then faces seaward again. The views are thus a rare 
combination of the sea and the mountains in perpetual 
alternation. At one point we round some rugged promon¬ 
tory at a great height above the sea. With the next bay 
we descend again to the beach, at a fishing village. 

The last descent brings us to Amalfi and the busy lit¬ 
tle harbor. For the views, both to east and west, we 
must climb as far as possible up the towering cliff. 
Climbing about Almalfi is a thorny business, it is true. 
Paths and winding stairs usually bring one to any but 
the desired destination, and clambering over garden- 
walls is discouraged by broken glass set in cement along 
the top of the wall. 

18. The Cappuccini, Amalfi . 

From a rocky height we are looking westward, towards 
the point of the Sorrento Peninsula. One headland after 
another rises from a line of foam, where the fringes of 
coral show themselves with each retiring wave. The eye 
follows these beautiful outlines from the sea up 
through terraces and houses, and rough precipices, to the 
great mountain above our heads, the Monte Sant’ Angelo, 
the peak of which is higher than Vesuvius. It is this 
rare combination of wild nature—mountain and sea- 


77 


No. 18 


ITALY 


Map 


with gardens and villages and towers, filling every possi¬ 
ble and impossible spot, which gives this famous coast its 
unfailing charm. 

Away below us the road to Sorrento plunges into a 
short tunnel, piercing the rock beneath the wreck and 
ruin of the great landslide of 1899, to reappear at sev¬ 
eral points in the distance. On the horizon directly above 
the tunnel appears a convent loftily perched. This we 
shall see again as we round that distant headland. To 
the right against the cliff is the Convent of the Cappuc- 
cini, white in the noon-day sun. The monks have de¬ 
parted, and their monastery has been for years the most 
famous hostelry of Amalfi, where guests accustomed to 
every luxury have been ready to pay a large price for 
one of its cells, partly for the pleasure of dreaming that 
they were monks of a bygone age, meditating upon the 
beautiful views below, but also because the house has 
been admirably kept as a hotel, while preserving all of 
its peaceful charms as a former convent. The quaint old 
buildings in their simplicity form a picture of the mid¬ 
dle ages, against the background—almost vertical—of 
the mountain side. The church is concealed, except for 
its belfry. Above it are the terraces of a garden. At 
the right are the white columns of the pergola , a beauti¬ 
ful rose-garden, which has figured in more than one 
novel. To the left great buttresses and retaining-walls 
below used to add to the impression of security, as of the 
everlasting hills which frown down from above. But 
since the memorable disaster of a few years ago these de¬ 
vices of man seem feeble efforts to resist the forces of 
Nature. 

The Convent of the Capuchins formerly possessed a 
garden to the left of the buildings. In the garden was 
a great open grotto, beneath the towering cliff. Here 

78 


4 


SORRENTO PENINSULA 


No. 18 


the monks came to say their prayers at a “ Calvary,'’ 
which they had established in this grotto,—or to look 
out upon the sea from a low wall along the brink. Later, 
when tourists came from the ends of the earth, to dis¬ 
place the pious monks, that spot became one of the most 
celebrated in Europe for its superb view. Here painters 
painted, poets—and other people—dreamed, as they 
breathed the soft air, until a day of awakening came. 

On the 22nd of December, 1899, at two o'clock in the 
afternoon, after ominous warnings of a coming land¬ 
slide, an enormous mass of rock above the Calvary 
tore itself away from the mountain side, and rolled with 
the roar of thunder into the sea. Some thirty thousand 
cubic yards, or more, of rock had fallen. About one- 
third of the convent front was swept away, with perhaps 
twenty of its rooms. The story of ruin is told by those 
enormous rocks down there by the harbor, and by the im¬ 
mense pile of debris rising up to the convent itself. One 
whole corner of the harbor was filled,—just where a few 
years ago we might have taken a boat for an excursion 
along the shore. 

Close by the tunnel on the left we see the start of a 
path which circled around the promontory and led to 
a smaller hotel, the S. Caterina, down by the water. One 
guest of that hotel, an English lady, who had returned 
to her room for her valuables after the warning was 
given, lost her life, with her companion. About ten 
other persons perished, mostly fishermen in their boats, 
or on the shore, where the tidal wave was terrific. Had 
a similar accident occurred at any other spot, the loss of 
life must have been far greater; but lovers of Amalfi— 
and their name is legion—will never cease to mourn the 
ruin of a favorite spot. It is a sad wreck of what once 
was there,—the great overhanging rock and the unspoiled 

79 


No. 19 


ITALY 


Map 


cliff descending to the sea. The piercing of the tunnel, 
about 1892^ seems to have been the ultimate cause of the 
disaster. But one may almost imagine that, as the sea 
once swept away a large part of Amalfi, so the mountain 
has joined in a conspiracy of Nature’s hidden forces to 
rob the old city, first of its naval power and commercial 
prosperity, and then, many centuries later, of its most 
picturesque view. 

Clambering down over the rocks we reach the long ter¬ 
raced garden and famous pergola of the Cappuccini. 

ig. Amalfi, from the Cappuccini. 

From the hotel itself we have this superb view to the 
eastward, in the direction of Salerno. We are, perhaps, 
a hundred and fifty feet above the sea, almost directly 
below us. The greater part of Amalfi seems to have dis¬ 
appeared. For far the larger portion of the quaint old 
city is now lost to our view in the deep gorge, across the 
mouth of which we are looking. We might never 
suspect its presence, if we had not had glimpses of it in 
passing. Into the dark shadow of that defile narrow 
streets ascend, tunneling under houses, and doing their 
best to keep company with the mountain torrent which 
turns the noisy wheels of one paper-mill after another. 
But all that is hidden from us at present. Out of that 
gorge Amalfi seems to be discharging itself down steep 
slopes into the sea, across that little beach, the Marina , 
where the fishing boats are drawn up upon the sand. 

Far below us, against the vertical cliff, and boldly sup¬ 
ported by arches, runs a stretch of the high-road, only to 
disappear presently in the gloom of a tunnel, above which 
the houses clamber over one another up the rock. After 
reaching the Marina it is hemmed in between the sea-wall 


80 


4 


SORRENTO PENINSULA 


No. 19 


and the houses, by the little church, then veers, first to 
left and then to right, finally disappearing at the point 
between the old ruined tower by the sea and the white 
convent of the Luna, now a hotel. These two convents, 
now given over to the traveling public, mark the limits 
of Amalfi. Between them some seven thousand people 
have managed to stow themselves away, mainly in that 
quarter of the city which the gorge has swallowed up 
from our sight. 

Above the city the red rocks tower to a great height. 
One commanding position on our left is occupied by a 
round tower; on another are the ruins of a castle. From 
the latter a long ridge descends with varied outline to the 
Luna and the tower by the sea. The slope which faces 
us is covered with terraced gardens, almost down to the 
Marina. Beyond we see the jagged lines of a great head¬ 
land, from that rounded mountain-crest through a veil 
of clouds to the blue sea. And the descent is so sharp 
that the road is obliged to climb high above the water 
in order to round that promontory, the Capo Tumolo. 
We can clearly see the white line of the ascending road, 
which climbs down again on the other side to Vietri and 
Salerno. 

At our feet the sea is rolling in over the beach, and 
whitening the whole line of the shore, while the deep 
blue changes into every shade of green, emerald, or of 
amethyst. 

In such surroundings, with the soft southern air, the 
vivid coloring, and, in the distance, the intangible Med¬ 
iterranean horizon, it is difficult to think of anything but 
the natural beauty of a coast where the mountains for¬ 
ever dispute the claims of the sea. Yet Amalfi has had its 
history, and a history which smacks of its native element. 
Unknown until the beginning of the middle ages, Amalfi 

81 


No. 19 


ITALY 


Map 


grew up under the rule of eastern emperors at far-away 
Constantinople, until it reached the dignity of a republic 
with a doge of its own, and a power on the sea which en¬ 
abled it even to carry on war with the Kings of Naples, 
and with Pisa. It had not less than seven times its pres¬ 
ent population, and was really of the first importance in 
the maritime world. And this small republic had its 
part in the development of commerce, and still more of 
admiralty law. Its most precious treasure was a law 
book,—a sixth or seventh century manuscript of the 
Digest of Justinian, which fell as a prize in war to the 
Pisans in 1135, and later (1406), to Florence, where it is 
now to be seen in the Laurentian Library. 

But Nature, which had so grudgingly given land for 
this growing city between the mountain and the sea, took 
away a large part of what she had given. By a great 
catastrophe in the middle of the fourteenth century 
(1343), a large part of the town and the arsenal and 
harbor-works were swallowed up in the sea. The trade 
of the Levant, which had been the wealth of the city, fell 
immediately to its rivals, Pisa, Genoa and Venice. So 
the greatness of Amalfi was at an end. For more than 
five centuries and a half it has dreamed of its past, as it 
looks across the bay towards Paestum, with memories 
of an age much more remote. 

The road from Amalfi along the southern shore of the 
Sorrento Peninsula, and then over a ridge at a height 
of 1,200 feet, and down to Sorrento or Castellammare, is 
even more picturesque than that we have traversed from 
Salerno to Amalfi. That section which brings us from 
Amalfi to Prajano was the last to be completed. As re¬ 
cently as 1891 the road came abruptly to an end at the 
rock beneath the Cappuceini, compelling travelers to take 


82 


4 


SORRENTO PENINSULA 


No. 20 


a boat for Prajano, some six miles away. It was more 
primitive, but it had its charms, as one was rowed along 
beneath the cliffs, close enough to see the coral just be¬ 
low the water-line. One landed in a little bight, to 
climb up a steep path to the road. But the highway, now 
finished, offers greater variety and is preferred by all. 

20. An Old Convent, near Amalfi. 

We have come two or three miles from Amalfi, and 
looking back have this varied scene before us. The 
little donkey-cart has stopped, too, at this turn in the 
road, while these half-dozen sunburned boys exercise their 
natural right to stare at strangers. It is a much-traveled 
road,—a procession of carriages, large and small, carry¬ 
ing tourists around the peninsula in this direction or 
that. But one sees fewer picturesque carts than about 
Salerno or Pompeii. 

Over the low wall the rocks pitch in broken masses to 
the sea, while the whole view is filled with this magnifi¬ 
cent mountain side. High up on the left towers this 
lofty convent, with its square buildings and small 
tower, almost directly overhanging the road, and so high 
that one wonders whether the monks ever came down 
again. Beneath the garden, and its wall on the very 
brink, a deep shadow recalls in a certain way the former 
grotto of the Cappuccini at Amalfi, and one can only fear 
that this crag, too, may some day prove the ruin of the 
convent above. 

Directly over those buildings a mountain-peak loses 
itself in the cloud. Below, the wild outline of the moun¬ 
tain rapidly descends to the level of cultivation, where 
orange and lemon groves climb up and down the ter¬ 
races among white houses, here and there clustering about 
a church. These villages often seem to have a feeble hold 

83 


No. 20 


ITALY 


Maps 


upon the side of the mountain, as though an earthquake 
or landslide would readily topple them over, one upon 
another, into the sea. 

On our right a rocky point bears an old watch-tower, 
standing out boldly against a background of blue sea. 
The whole coast is studded with these towers, 
erected, we are told, by the Emperor Charles V, to 
guard against attacks by pirates, who still flourished in 
the sixteenth century. No doubt many of these points 
had similar towers in an earlier time, to warn Amalfi of 
some sudden descent of the Saracens. Certainly we are 
constantly reminded of the Saracens all about Naples. 
These flat-roofed houses and the low domes give to the 
villages, and even to larger towns, a very Oriental ap¬ 
pearance. 

Beyond the tower the cliffs are as vertical as at 
Sorrento, and the road is often close to the margin. 
At a greater distance rise the flat-topped heights about 
Amalfi. Beyond these higher peaks are wreathed in light 
clouds. 

Long stretches of the road can be made out at various 
points, as it keeps near the sea. But we cannot trace the 
long loops which occur wherever a gorge is encountered, 
obliging the road to make a detour beneath still more 
frowning heights, before it can return to the sea to 
round the next headland. Such is the varied character 
of this wonderful road. In celebrity it rivals the famous 
Corniche in its most beautiful stages, along the French 
Riviera. But if the Monte Sant’ Angelo is not equal to 
the Maritime Alps, there is here a greater wealth of col¬ 
oring, and all the charms of a more varied and pictur¬ 
esque history. In the making of that history many hands 
have had a part, not so much in leaving behind tangible 

84 


SORRENTO PENINSULA 


No. 20 


4, 1 

memorials, though these are not lacking, as in producing 
this mingled civilization of the old Kingdom of the Two 
Sicilies. 

We are in Europe, but Sicily, the half-way house, is 
near, and Africa itself seems to be not far away, along 
this coast where Moorish pirates came and went. And 
in the towns are many things which show that Constanti¬ 
nople and the East were once strong influences in making 
Amalfi and its neighbors what they were. 


The road to Sorrento gradually rises and leaves the 
coast to cross over the crest of the ridge, and down with 
long windings to the northern shore of the peninsula. In 
other words, we have returned to the Bay of Naples. 
We cross to Naples by steamboat. 


In journeying to Rome* we travel through a country 
of varied scenery, and of countless historical associa¬ 
tions, by way of the ancient Capua, with its huge amphi¬ 
theatre, and then along the line of the ancient Latin 
Way, which ran at some distance from the sea, behind 
the lower coast ranges. Through the beautiful valley— 
that of the classic Liris—we reach Cassino, where an im¬ 
mense group of flat-topped buildings, and a domed 
church upon the summit of a mountain instantly attract 
attention. It is Monte Cassino, the original home of the 
learned Benedictine order, and historically the most im¬ 
portant monastic establishment in the world. The next 
station is Aquino, which produced the famous schoolman, 
St. Thomas Aquinas. Near by was Arpinum, the birth¬ 
place of Marius and Cicero. But we are bound for 
Rome. 


•See map 1. 


85 



No. 21 


ITALY 


Maps 


At length we reach the margin of the Campagna, near 
Palestrina, the ancient Praeneste. Soon we are running 
parallel to the ruined aqueduct arches,* with rising ex¬ 
citement as we see increasing evidences that our train is 
actually carrying us into Rome. There is a breach in the 
walls, another ruin—a dome of brick on the left—and 
the vision of a classic world is dispelled by the prosaic 
railway station. Here are the Baths of Diocletian oppo¬ 
site the station, here a great fountain, and then another. 
Prose or poetry, fact or fancy, this is Rome. 

ROME 

Once we have found our hotel in the strangers’ quar¬ 
ter, and settled ourselves in all haste, we set out down the 
Corso for a first view of the heart of old Rome, its 
Forum. Over the Capitol, past the bronze Marcus Au¬ 
relius, we hasten down the steps from which the view 
spreads itself out before us. 

21. Temple of Saturn and the Forum. 

We are looking down upon the Forum from the as¬ 
cent to the Capitol. On our left the columns of the 
Temple of Saturn first attract our attention, as we recog¬ 
nize in them the most familiar object in all the pictures 
of the Forum which we have ever seen. They seem like 
old friends, not to be admired for any beauty that they 
possess, but still assured their place in affectionate mem¬ 
ory of a spot which we have long tried to imagine for 
ourselves, and now at last have before our eyes. It is as 
though we had been here before, and had looked down 
from this identical spot in some previous existence. So 


♦See map 8. 


86 



ROME 


No. 21 


5, 6 


hard is it to believe that things most familiar are now 
seen for the first time. 

It is a rude shock to one’s imagination to find that 
these massive granite columns are not exactly mated, 
that one or two of them seem to consist of parts rudely 
joined together, with the upper section inverted. 

And then the capitals are stiff and crude,—every de¬ 
tail suggesting the degenerate taste of an age in which 
the purity of classic forms had ceased to be appreciated. 
These indications alone would prove that this Temple of 
Saturn is not that which looked down upon the historic 
scenes enacted in the Forum in the days of Cicero or 
Cassar. Like most of the other buildings in or about the 
Forum, the Temple of Saturn was restored, or rebuilt 
from time to time upon the same site, and what we see 
dates from the age of Diocletian and the last days of 
paganism. By that time Rome was no longer the resi¬ 
dence of the emperors, except at intervals, and while the 
costly monuments of the Eternal City were not entirely 
neglected, the work of repair and restoration was often 
hastily done, and by incompetent hands. It seems strange 
that this most conspicuous ruin in the Forum should rep¬ 
resent so late an age. It would meet our expectations far 
better if by some strange power the Roman Forum had 
been preserved just as it was at some given period, as the 
age of Augustus, for example,—very much as the Forum 
of Pompeii* gave us a clear picture of one definite mo¬ 
ment—the last—in the life of that thriving town. But 
without the intervention of a Vesuvius the capital of the 
world could not possibly have the same experience as 
provincial Pompeii. Roman history never came abruptly 
to an end. The chain is absolutely unbroken from our 
own day back to the Roman Republic. Nothing ever 

i 


♦See No. 11. 


87 



No. 21 


ITALY 


Map 


came to a standstill. While the overgrown Empire re¬ 
quired many capitals, at Ravenna and Milan and Arles, 
Treves or York, Nicomedia or Constantinople, and the 
sceptre had departed from the city of Rome, still the 
ancient seat of power remained the ideal centre of the 
Roman world, and dominated the imaginations of distant 
peoples, as it has continued to do in one way or another 
to the present time. 

But are there no remains here of the early Empire? 
Has everything been overlaid with the work of later and 
less glorious ages? 

On our right—as we look over the dark concrete foun¬ 
dation from which the Temple of Saturn has disap¬ 
peared, except for those columns and their entablature— 
a broad level space of marble floor stretches away be¬ 
tween long lines of square bases. That is the Basilica 
Julia, begun by Julius Caesar, completed by Augustus. 
This great building of which so little now remains, 
served the purposes of an exchange, and also sheltered 
some of the principal law-courts. It was one of the 
busiest spots in Rome in the time of the Empire. Other 
buildings of the same general type had served these pub¬ 
lic needs before the time of the great dictator, but, as 
with his other mighty projects, this was to outstrip any¬ 
thing that had been built before. In form it is a huge 
rectangle,—a broad central space, or nave, in the centre, 
and on either side two aisles. Open arches, on at least 
three sides, made the whole building accessible from the 
streets and the Forum. Above there was a second story 
over the side-aisles. 

The street which runs along the left side of the basilica 
is the Sacred Way, the scene of so many triumphal pro¬ 
cessions. On the left of that famous street lies the open 
space of the Forum, much obstructed by cumbrous monu- 

88 


5 


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No. 21 


ments to forgotten dignitaries, and in large part hidden 
from ns by the columns of the Temple of Saturn. But 
between these we see a single fluted shaft,—the Column 
of Phocas, the latest monument in the Forum (seventh 
century). A wider opening in the portico of the Saturn 
temple reveals the front of the Temple of Antoninus and 
Faustina, which lies beyond the limits of the Forum 
proper. In front of Antoninus’s temple is a confused 
mass of ruins, among them the Temple of Julius Ciesar, 
facing towards us, and bounding the Forum in that di¬ 
rection. It can be recognized by a small shelter-roof, re¬ 
cently placed over the spot where Caesar’s body was 
burned. 

On the right, beyond the Basilica Julia, a high con¬ 
crete foundation supports the three fluted columns of 
the Temple of Castor and Pollux, dating from the reign 
of Augustus. Behind the Castor temple is the angle of 
the Palatine Hill. Beyond, and over the ruins of the 
Temple of Yesta and the palace of the Vestal Virgins, the 
Arch of Titus stands out conspicuously at the highest 
point of the Sacred Way. 

In the distance the Colosseum fills nearly the whole 
background, though hidden in part by the Church of 
Santa Francesca, with its slender Lombard tower. The 
church occupies in part the site of one of the greatest of 
the Roman temples, that dedicated by Hadrian to Venus 
and the goddess Rome. 

But we have come to this spot for a general view only, 
and to form our impressions of a spot about which cen¬ 
tres so large a part of European history. We shall need 
to come again and again to study the details which at 
first seem so confusing.* 


♦See Nos. 32-41. 


89 



No. 22 


ITALY 


Maps 


For the morning we have planned to visit St. Peter’s 
and the Vatican. 

A DAY AT ST. PETER'S AND THE VATICAN 

VVe make our way down to the Tiber, cross it by the 
Ponte Sant’ Angelo ,* reserving the castle for a later visit, 
and keep on through the Bor go Vecchio towards St. 
Peter’s. To avoid the disappointment which usually 
attends a first view of the church from the level of the 
square, where the great dome is partly hidden by the 
flat-topped fagade, we climb to the roof of a house, and 
looking over the tiles to the west, we are rewarded for 
our pains by the very best view of both church and palace 
which can anywhere be obtained. 

33 . St. Peter's and the Vatican. 

Before us lies the greatest cathedral in the world, but 
far away across this vast forecourt. No other building 
could be named that has so superb an approach. In the 
first place there is an outer court, as it were,—this square 
at our feet, extending to the point at which the piazza 
proper begins, with its forest of columns to right and left. 
That great ellipse, marked by the white lines in the pave¬ 
ment, and at the ends by the colonnades, is large enough 
to contain the entire church placed crosswise, if only 
the vestibule were omitted. In other words, the elliptical 
piazza alone is about the size, and not far from the shape, 
of the Colosseum, f 

The long curving colonnade on our right is exactly 
matched by another on our left. From the dome we shall 
see the whole great plan spread out before us. $ On either 
hand there are four rows of Tuscan columns in yellowed 


*See Nos. 46. 47. 
tSee Nos. 37, 38. 
tSee No. 48. 


90 



5, 7 


ROME 


No. 22 


Travertine,—the material of the church itself. To ap¬ 
preciate these unique colonnades we must walk the length 
of the central driveway beneath the portico, turning with 
the curve of the whole great structure. But they are 
most praised, by strangers as well as Bomans, when a 
southern sun makes the unsheltered piazza into one fierce 
Sahara. 

Above the columns, upon a balustrade, the sculptor- 
architect Bernini ranged a small army of sculptured 
saints in restless poses. These saints in stone keep watch, 
as sentinels upon the walls, in unbroken line to the very 
front of the church. For the curved colonnade on either 
hand is continued by a straight wing. These wings grad¬ 
ually ascend, enclosing another broad open space in the 
shape of a keystone. But this—the more immediate fore¬ 
court —is nearly filled by the spreading steps. 

From our present position the church seems intermin¬ 
ably remote. The actual distance is upwards of eleven 
hundred feet, and we might readily believe it even more, 
as we accustom ourselves to the mighty proportions of 
everything about St. Peter’s. 

In the centre is the well-known obelisk from the Nero- 
nian Circus. The fountain on the right and its compan¬ 
ion on the other side of the piazza are of great size and 
volume,—far larger than they appear at this distance. 
As the wind is blowing they send their cool spray over a 
wide circle of pavement. 

Above the colonnade on our right rise the irregular 
masses of the Vatican Palace, or rather one end of that 
unlimited pile, which extends indefinitely to the 
northward. The square portion furthest to the right con¬ 
tains the apartments of the Pope himself, at the angle of 
the court upon the third floor and commanding a full 
view of the square and St. Peter’s. To point out his win- 


91 


No. 22 


ITALY 


Map 


clows is the delight of cabmen and itinerant dealers in 
pictures below. On the fourth floor, at the same angle 
of the palace, resides the Cardinal Secretary of State. 

The nearest court of the palace, with one side open 
toward the piazza, is the court of St. Damasus, a fourth 
century pope. That is the official centre of the Vatican. 
It is approached by the Bronze Doors, which lie behind 
those two wide-spaced columns, directly opposite us, to 
the left of the fountain. This is the principal entrance 
to the palace. 

But the picturesqueness of the court of St. Damasus— 
one of the works of the great Bramante—has been spoiled 
by glazing the open arches, which once admitted light 
and air freely to the long corridors running around three 
sides of the court. These are the famous loggias, but 
the fame of their fresco and stucco decoration is limited 
to that upon the third story (the second visible to us), 
and the west side of the court,—that nearest to the 
church. A visit to these works of Raphael and his pupils 
is best combined with the Picture Gallery upon the top¬ 
most floor, opening upon the upper loggia, but it is well 
to take our bearings in advance, since the geography of 
the Vatican is very confusing. For the same reason we 
must notice the simple, low-pitched roof of the Sistine 
Chapel, between the palace and St. Peter’s. 

Behind the buildings which we see stretch away in 
magnificent distances the far larger portions of the pal¬ 
ace. Of these successive popes have, as it were, dispos¬ 
sessed themselves, as one after another of the papal col¬ 
lections and apartments of historic and artistic import¬ 
ance have been put at the service of the public, that is to 
say, of visitors from every corner of the world. Of the 
historic apartments the most celebrated are the 
Stanze of Raphael, and beneath them the Borgia 

' 92 


7 


ROME 


No. 22 


Apartments, first opened in 1897. These are near the Sis- 
tine Chapel, while Library and Sculpture Gallery ex¬ 
tend away to the north. After traversing these galleries 
from end to end we shall be quite ready to believe that 
the long corridor of the Library is more than a thousand 
feet in length, and cease to wonder that the Pope is car¬ 
ried about in that venerable institution, the sedan-chair. 

In spite of the immense size of the Vatican, its present 
owner may be said to inhabit one small corner of a vast 
museum. The wing containing the few rooms with which 
he contents himself is not older than the beginning of the 
seventeenth century. Indeed, one is impressed by the 
fact that in all this huge pile there is nothing to recall the 
middle ages, nothing older than the fifteenth century. 

The reason, however, is not far to seek. It was only 
after the “Babylonian captivity ” at Avignon (1309— 
1379), that the popes began to reside regularly at the 
Vatican, deserting the old palace of the Lateran, which 
had been their home for nearly a thousand years. 

As for St. Peter’s itself, as one first looks upon it from 
this point of view, it is difficult to analyze the impres¬ 
sion. Colossal it is, beyond anything else with which 
one may compare it. Giants seem to have built for all 
time, with the assurance that future ages would share 
their love of the gigantic. As it happened, the genera¬ 
tions that were to come agreed at first, and then began 
timidly to think for themselves, and to think differently. 
Yet, however loudly the faqade may be condemned by the 
modern critics, no voice is ever raised against the per¬ 
fection of the unrivaled dome of Michael Angelo and 
della Porta. 

In order to gain a nearer view we climb to the roof of 


93 


No. 23 


ITALY 


Map 


another house just at the corner of the smaller square 
and the great piazza. 

¥ 

23. St. Peter’s. 

Here too we have the advantage of elevation, and 
the wonderful dome, instead of being lost behind the 
nearer front of the church, as when it is seen from the 
square below, rises to nearly its full height above the fa¬ 
cade. 

On the right and left we have the wings enclosing the 
broad space directly before the church. Above that upon 
the right rises the roof of the Sistine Chapel; over that 
upon the left is the low dome of the sacristy. 

The faqade extends so far on either side of the nave 
of the church that there is room for those great open 
arches to right and left. Under that arch on the left, in 
fact beneath the lower arch, which looks so small in the 
distance, passes the street which leads around St. Peter’s, 
and along the whole length of the palace to the entrance 
to the Sculpture Gallery and the Library. Everything is 
dwarfed by the vast scale of St. Peter’s. The few peo¬ 
ple lost in empty space before the central door give us 
some measure of the height of those gigantic columns. 
The whole faqade is 165 feet high, with a length of 369 
feet, while the cross upon the dome is 435 feet above the 
floor of the church. But figures add little to the almost 
superhuman impression made by the vast structure it¬ 
self. As though the enormous columns and pilasters with 
their colossal entablature, were not enough, an upper 
story was added, with open windows, of which some are 
used for bells. Above is a long row of colossal figures 
19 feet high, representing Christ and the Apostles. 

The dome itself is buttressed by paired columns, above 

94 


7 


ROME 


No. 23 


which rise the mighty ribs, to the lantern at the top. 
Smaller domes on either side relieve the flatness of the 
roof. 

In the history of the fabric of St. Peter’s, the old and 
the new, one may read whole chapters in the history of 
Christendom in general. The old basilica was a noble 
church of great size, erected in the age of Constantine. 
It witnessed many historic scenes, among them the coro¬ 
nation of Charlemagne in 800. The building of a new 
church was planned by Pope Nicholas V (1450), but not 
begun until 1506 under Julius II. Most of the great 
architects of the Renaissance labored on the slowly rising 
structure, which was not finished until 1626, after many 
changes of plan. Meanwhile the last vestige of the old 
church had been removed, except the crypt. 

Above the central door is the balcony where the popes 
used to be crowned, and from which they gave their 
blessing urbi et orbi, to the city and the world. With¬ 
in the vestibule, opposite the last door to the right is the 
Porta Santa, closed except in years of jubilee (the last 
in 1900). On our right, in the centre of the piazza, rises 
the Egyptian obelisk of Caligula, removed to its present 
position in 1586. The removal had been entrusted to a 
celebrated architect, Fontana, but was not accomplished 
without great danger, caused by the stretching of the 
ropes. Silence had been imposed upon the excited crowd 
by Pope Sixtus V under the penalty of death. The sus¬ 
pense increased as the enormous mass ceased to rise. 
Suddenly a sailor’s voice rang out,—“Water upon the 
ropes!” He had risked his life, but the obelisk was 
saved. 

Originally brought from Egypt by the Emperor Cali¬ 
gula (37-41 A. D.) for the adornment of his circus, this 
obelisk was dedicated to the memory of Augustus and Ti- 

95 


No. 23 


ITALY 


Map 


berius, and witnessed Nero’s appearance in chariot races, 
and then the martyrdom of Christians, torn by wild 
beasts and burned as torches for the illumination of the 
same circus, while Nero, in the dress of a jockey, mingled 
with the crowd. 

By and by the circus fell in ruins, and furnished foun¬ 
dations for the first basilica raised by the triumphant 
church to her Apostle, whose tomb stood by the Cornelian 
Road close to the circus. Still the obelisk remained 
standing, crowded into a corner- to the left of old St. 
Peter’s and its chapels (near the present sacristy), until 
the new church was nearly completed. 

Not to mention far-away Egypt, it serves to link the 
ancient with the modern Rome, just as the great plan of 
the piazza recalls the sumptuous Fora of the emperors, 
although in size the popes have far outstripped the 
Caesars. 

As the old St. Peter’s—like many of the early churches 
—had an atrium, or forecourt, so this whole vast piazza 
is merely a forecourt to the new temple, the chief tem¬ 
ple of Christendom. Thus here—one may say every¬ 
where in Rome—ancient and mediaeval and modern meet 
in one lasting impression of the unity of history, and the 
community of interest which binds the whole western 
world together. 

From our housetop view-points we have tried to ab¬ 
sorb all that we could of St. Peter’s in its vastness. De¬ 
scending to the piazza we pass between the obelisk and 
the fountain, between the heroic figures of Sts. Peter 
and Paul at the foot of the broad stairs; then through 
one of the great doors into the vestibule, which is itself 
as large as many churches; at last through the inner 
doors into the huge temple. But again we will get the 

96 


7 


ROME 


No. 24 


best view from an elevated position,—this time from a 
balcony above the vestibule, directly over the central 
doorway. 

14. The Nave of St. Peter's. 

The boundless spaces of this enormous interior seem 
absolutely deserted. Yet thirty thousand people do not 
make a crowd in St. Peter’s. Even now in the side-aisles, 
the transepts, and chapels, there may be hundreds of peo¬ 
ple, while in the nave all is solemn stillness. There is not 
a sign of pew or chair to break the expanse of marble 
floor. It is a new floor, the gift of the Pope Leo XIII. 
Down its centre runs a series of inscriptions in brass 
letters let into the marble, marking the length in each 
case of some famous cathedral, as that at Milan, or St. 
Paul’s at London (for Protestant churches are in¬ 
cluded). Of course they all fall far short of the length of 
St. Peter’s, which measures upwards of six hundred feet 
in length within, or nearly seven hundred feet, including 
walls and the broad vestibule. 

The height of the nave is 150 feet, its width 87 feet. 
And the coffered and gilded vaulting in solid masonry, 
which spans this great width at such a height, seems built 
to last forever. And yet it is not without a certain light¬ 
ness. The weight is borne by great piers, faced with 
colossal pilasters in pairs. Upon their Corinthian capi¬ 
tals rests a gigantic entablature; upon this the vaulting. 
The entablature is carried all the way around the church, 
and its frieze is adorned with inscriptions, Latin, 
or Greek, all in letters six feet high. The piers 
are joined together down the length of the nave by 
wide arches, through which one passes into the side aisles. 
The pilasters which support these arches are adorned 
with medallions of popes and saints, or tiaras and keys, 

97 


No. 24 


ITALY 


Map 


supported by lively cherubs,—all against a background 
of polished marble. The same style of restless sculpture 
also appears above in the spandrils, or triangular spaces 
on either side of the arches. Bernini and his school have 
done their worst with the sculptures of St. Peter’s, and 
the result is that noble proportions, vast scale,—every¬ 
thing which increases the architectural effect on the one 
hand, is belittled on the other by frivolous, irreverent 
sculpture. But we shall find everywhere in St. Peter’s 
this contrast between the purer taste of the Renaissance 
architecture at its best, in the hands of Bramante and 
the rest, and the theatrical and spectacular features 
which mark the decline in the seventeenth century. 

Beneath the dome is the papal altar, above which 
tower the twisted bronze columns, supporting the can¬ 
opy, or baldachin. This is also in bronze with orna¬ 
ments in gilt. The cross upon its top is 95 feet above the 
floor, or about the height of the cornice. Beneath this 
altar is the Confessio, the Holy of Holies, with golden 
lamps burning about that balustrade within which stairs 
descend to the tomb of the Apostle. 

Even at this distance we can form some impression of 
the huge circular space beneath the dome. The sunlight 
streaks across the great rotunda from the windows in 
the drum, suggesting those soaring heights which are 
lost to us by the vaulting of the nave, itself catching hazy 
sunbeams from the windows of the clerestory. The light 
in St. Peter’s always seems to come from upper regions, 
far above our heads. There is but one stained window 
in the whole church, and that we can see at the extreme 
west end of the choir, through the openings in the upper 
part of the baldachin. It is simply a glory, with a dove 
descending. Beneath that window is the chair of St. 
Peter. 


98 


7 


ROME 


No. 24 


The famous statue of the Apostle* we can barely see 
on the right in the distance, as he sits with uplifted hand 
upon his marble throne, against one of the principal 
piers of the dome. 

In building St. Peter’s it was the aim of the popes and 
their architects to reproduce the grandest works of im¬ 
perial Rome, and, if possible, outstrip them. Thus the 
dome was to rival the Pantheon, which it does not in¬ 
deed equal in diameter by a few feet, although the height 
is vastly greater, and the construction far bolder, reared 
as it is upon four massive piers at the crossing of nave 
and transepts. For these latter members the model was 
taken from the Roman baths and the Basilica of Con- 
stantinef. Whereas the old St. Peter’s recalled the Chris¬ 
tian Rome of the fourth and fifth centuries, and its flat- 
ceiled basilicas, born upon row after row of columns, 
the new St. Peter’s was to recall in its stupendous piers 
and audacious vaulting the constructive triumphs of 
pagan Rome. And the church remains, not so much a 
church as an embodiment of old Rome itself,—a temple 
of the ages. 

We descend from the balcony above the central door 
to begin our tour of St. Peter’s and its chapels and 
tombs. The very first chapel of the right (north) aisle 
contains the most celebrated work of art in the church. J 

35 . The Pieta of Michael Angelo. 

This group—Mary with the dead Saviour—forms the 
altar-piece of the chapel, and has been raised so high 
upon its lofty pedestal, behind the tall altar-candles, that 

*See No. 26. 

fSee Nos. 34 and 58. 

JSee map 7. 

99 


L.ofC. 



No. 25 


ITALY 


Map 


it is seen with difficulty from below. And the effect is 
further marred by the dazzling background of precious 
alabaster and by the senseless addition of the gilded cher¬ 
ubs floating above the Virgin’s head and bearing a crown. 
The wrath of the fiery sculptor, if he could see his work 
thus placed and thus “ improved,’’ can readily be im¬ 
agined. 

The Mater Dolorosa sits holding the lifeless body of 
her Son upon her knees. Grief is so completely re¬ 
strained that nothing mars the serenity of that beautiful 
face,—no tears, no parting of the lips to utter even one 
subdued cry of anguish. This is not the grief that could 
be outwardly expressed. It lies too deep for tears. With 
perfect composure, but with unutterable sorrow, Mary 
sits inconsolable with the wasted form of her Son in her 
lap. It is the Madonna, still unfaded by age or grief, 
and she recalls in her new sorrow the memories of the 
child in arms,—the infant Saviour. Calvary and the 
Cross are past. Her Son has been given back to her,— 
into her lap, as though He were a little child. But He is 
dead. The arms and legs hang limp, not yet stiff¬ 
ened by the grip of death, the head drooping, the body 
sunken. Self-denial and anguish in life, and the agonies 
of an unspeakable death, have given a premature age to 
his three-and-thirty years. By contrast the Virgin ap¬ 
pears young and vigorous, with the perennial youth of 
the Virgin-mother. At first the critics found fault with 
this seeming contradiction, but Michael Angelo came to 
his own defence, and we have the words in which he ex¬ 
plained and justified his deliberate purpose to emphasize 
the worn humanity of the crucified Son, in contrast with 
the “maidenliness and imperishable purity” of the 
Mother. 

The sculptor was but twenty-four years old when he 
100 


7 


ROME 


No. 25 


completed this group in 1499. What he had done before 
had already brought him a name. The Pieta gave him 
at once his place as the first living master of sculpture. 
It was placed in a chapel of the old basilica of St. Peter’s, 
in surroundings much more in keeping with its deep re¬ 
ligious feeling. For with all that the young Michael An¬ 
gelo had learned from his ancient models, this greatest 
of his earlier works is still true to the religious sentiment 
of the middle ages. But here in its new surroundings, 
amid all the pomp and worldliness of the new St. Pe¬ 
ter’s, the tender pathos of the Pieta seems stifled as in 
an unwholesome atmosphere,—an air for imposing spec¬ 
tacles of earthly grandeur, but fatal to every purely re¬ 
ligious impulse. 

We return to the great nave, and slowly walking to¬ 
wards the centre of the church, find ourselves lost in the 
sense of its overpowering vastness, until it is a positive 
relief to turn to smaller things, whether they are of his¬ 
toric interest or not. And among the few things not 
colossal in St. Peter’s is the venerable statue of the Apos¬ 
tle, just where the nave enters the rotunda. 

26. The Statue of St. Peter. 

On a quaint white marble throne, raised upon a ped¬ 
estal of veined marbles highly polished, sits the bronze 
figure of the Prince of the Apostles, whom tradition 
makes the first bishop of Rome; in other words, 
the first in the unbroken succession of the popes. His 
right hand is raised in the act of benediction, with two 
fingers erect. The left hand holds the keys in a stiffly 
vertical position. Hair and beard are curled after a 
mechanical and helpless fashion. Upon the head is the 
nimbus, in this case perforated, with rays like the spokes 

101 


No. 26 


ITALY 


Map 


of a wheel. One cannot doubt for a moment but that this 
is a venerable statue, in spite of all the controversies 
about its age. And it has been honored by crowds of 
pilgrims for so many centuries that the toes of the pro¬ 
jecting right foot have been quite worn away by the 
kisses of the faithful. On the festival of St. Peter, and 
on other great occasions, it has been the custom to array 
the statue in rich robes and papal state. 

Behind the saint is a rich mosaic background, and in 
the angle of the great pilaster are hung votive offerings 
in the shape of silver hearts. In front hangs a massive 
lamp between two graceful bronze candelabra, support¬ 
ing tall candles. The throne suggests an old Roman 
marble chair, and is clearly imitated from such models. 
But what of the statue? Is it also imitated from the 
antique, or itself antique, with possible alterations to 
adapt a pagan statue to Christian purposes, as has often 
been claimed ? There is no evidence that the head is not 
as old as the body. Everything indicates that the whole 
was cast at the same time. The stiff draperies suggest an 
awkward attempt—perhaps in the fifth century—to copy 
some sitting statue of a Roman emperor or magistrate. 
The left arm seems almost to be held in a sling, so un¬ 
skillful was the sculptor in handling the folds of the 
toga, in which the saint appears as a Roman. Such in¬ 
experience might belong to the last days of a declining 
art, but it is far more likely that this statue represents 
a much later age and the crude beginnings of the sculp¬ 
ture that was to blossom forth with* the Renaissance in 
the fifteenth century into the Pieta of Michael Angelo. 
While critics do not agree, and never will, the balance 
now inclines to the belief that this St. Peter dates from 
the thirteenth century. But a highly venerated statue 
of the Apostle stood in the old St. Peter’s, or in one of 

102 


7 


ROME 


No. 26 


its cloisters, as long ago as the eighth century, and 
many are ready to believe this to have been the same. 
By the fifteenth century the throne must have been re¬ 
placed, for this surely is not mediaeval, but of the early 
Renaissance, when antique forms were being revived 
with such enthusiasm. 

Beyond the statue we have a view of the “ tribune ” 
in the distance. In almost any other cathedral it would 
be called the choir. Its floor is raised two steps above 
the level of the church. The altar has for its background 
one of the most tasteless of all the works of Bernini. At 
either side stand two Fathers of the Church supporting 
a great throne in bronze. It is in fact a huge reliquary, 
for it contains the very ancient wooden and ivory 11 chair 
of St. Peter/’ Above are angels and rays of light, en¬ 
circling the stained window with the descending dove. 

To the left tower the monstrous columns of the balda¬ 
chin above the high altar.* They are of bronze and of 
immense weight, imitating some columns which stood 
near the Confessio of the older church, and were sup¬ 
posed to be from the Temple at Jerusalem. Some of 
them now adorn, with their fantastic outlines, the bal¬ 
conies of the dome, and one of these we can see directly 
above the head of St. Peter. 

It was Urban VIII who erected the colossal baldachin, 
—the same pope to whom it fell to dedicate the com¬ 
pleted St. Peter’s in 1626. His tomb—another work of 
Bernini—we see in that niche to the right of the altar in 
the tribune. 

Before the papal altar beneath the canopy is a mar¬ 
ble balustrade enclosing the most sacred spot in the 
church. About it are burning a long line of richly 
gilded lamps. 


♦See No. 24. 


103 



No. 27 


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27. The Confessio, or Holy of Holies. 

We are leaning upon the marble rail and looking down 
into the small crypt before the tomb of St. Peter. Di¬ 
rectly above the tomb is the papal altar, at which no one 
but the Pope may say mass, except by special authority. 
And it is now a rare occurrence for this altar to be used 
at all. The gilded branching lamps encircle this sacred 
spot, and follow the balustrade to the foot of the stairs. 
Other hanging lamps are suspended from the edge of the 
enclosure; and all are lighted and perpetually burning. 
There are also candelabra on either side of the bronze 
gates. 

Upon the adornment of the Confessio polished marbles 
of many varieties have been lavished. Not a spot is left 
unadorned, as though this central shrine could not pos¬ 
sibly be overloaded. Gilt-bronze statues of Sts. 
Peter and Paul stand in niches on either side. 
Between the alabaster columns in the centre the gilt- 
bronze doors are open. These are a relic of the older 
church. Within we can see a smaller opening framed 
about with precious marbles and a bronze grill. Some¬ 
thing very like a bronze casket may be seen through that 
small opening. But the actual tomb lies at a lower level, 
and has not been opened since 1594, when the giving way 
of the ground, as the floor of the church was being laid, 
disclosed the ancient coffin with its golden lid, and upon 
it a golden cross of great weight which bore the names 
of Constantine and the Empress Helena. Thus it ap¬ 
pears to be capable of proof that neither Goth nor Van¬ 
dal, nor yet the Saracen, ever desecrated the tomb of the 
Apostle. It remains to this day as it was in the 
days of Constantine. But of all that we are permitted 
to see nothing is older than the fifteenth century. Even 
the nineteenth century is represented in that kneeling 

104 


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No. 27 


statue of Pope Pius VI by Canova, near the foot of the 
stairs, directly facing the shrine. 

The tomb of St. Peter is now generally believed to 
have been at first a family tomb by the Cornelian Way. 
For that road, like other Roman highways, was lined 
with tombs, being beyond the limits of the ancient 
city. In trying then to picture to ourselves the appear¬ 
ance of this spot in the time of Nero, we must first recon¬ 
struct in imagination the Circus of Caligula and Nero, 
which lay along the line of the road of which we have 
just been speaking. On the opposite side of the road were 
tombs, and in one of these the body of the Apostle ap¬ 
pears to have been given a resting-place. He had suffered 
martyrdom in the neighboring circus, close to the great 
obelisk, and nothing could be more natural than that he 
should be buried in a tomb by the Cornelian Way. The 
road ran to the left of the present Confessio, and parallel 
with the axis of both the old and the new St. Peter’s. 
The foundations of the old basilica rested on one side 
upon the substructions of that circus, so memorable in 
the history of the first great persecution. The altar of 
the first St. Peter’s found its place above the tomb of the 
Apostle, and the same spot remains the centre of the 
present church. From a roadside tomb, across the street 
from a circus of bloody memory—where the Roman 
mob had been delighted by the torture and death of the 
Christians and of their great leader—to this gilded and 
glittering shrine, still the goal of so many pious pilgrim¬ 
ages, is a long, long way. But it is a way which shows 
no breach of continuity from the fisherman of Galilee 
and his persecutor, Nero, to the present day. 

After making the complete tour of St. Peter’s, with 
its chapels, its tombs of recent popes, its confessionals, 

105 


No. 28 


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inscribed with the language in which the penitent may 
there confess his sins—and every language seems to be 
represented in this church, which exists for all the world 
—we stroll out into the great piazza again, and down the 
broad steps to the Bronze Doors, the principal entrance 
to the Vatican.* Here we pass the Swiss Guards in their 
gay uniforms of other days, and slowly ascend the long 
corridor which at last brings us to the Royal Stairs. For 
the Sistine Chapel, as we have seen it from without,! lies 
high above the level of St. Peter’s, and is only to be 
reached by long flights of stairs. 

28. Sistine Chapel, Vatican Palace. 

We enter the chapel of Sixtus ^ IV by a small 
door in an angle of the wall, to find ourselves behind a 
beautiful marble screen, carved in the purest taste of the 
early Renaissance and bearing a row of marble candela¬ 
bra. Beyond is the broad open space of the Sistine 
Chapel, unbroken by columns, unobstructed by stalls,— 
nothing to draw the eye away from the glories of the 
ceiling, and the majesty of The Last Judgment, which 
fills the further wall of the chapel. 

But it is the ceiling which arrests and keeps our atten¬ 
tion until every muscle of the neck rebels. At first one 
seems to see nothing but a great architectural frame¬ 
work in fresco, supporting and supported by figures 
large and small, in every variety of attitude. 

Most conspicuous are the incomparable Prophets and 
Sibyls, seated upon thrones. High above the altar sits 
Jonah, recognized by the head of a sea-monster and by 
the inscription beneath. To the left above the side wall, 
Jeremiah, lost in thought; opposite the latter the Libyan 
Sibyl, with a great open book. So down the length of 


*See No. 22. 
tSee No. 23. 


106 



7 


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No. 28 


the chapel Sibyls and Prophets alternate, to emphasize 
the agreement of pagan oracles and Jewish prophecy 
which a famous line of the mediaeval judgment hymn, the 
Dies Irce , had impressed upon the minds of all succeed¬ 
ing generations. 

The centre of the ceiling tells, in a series of larger and 
smaller pictures, the story of the Creation, the Pall, and 
the Flood. The first picture is the Separation of Light 
from Darkness. Above the angles of the chapel, on 
either side of Jonah, are two in the series of Deliverances, 
—on the right the Brazen Serpent in the Wilderness, on 
the left the Hanging of Haman. In the spaces a\>ove the 
windows are the ancestors of Christ, in solemn anticipa¬ 
tion of his coming. 

Such was the ceiling decoration which the genius of 
Michael Angelo produced in the four years 1508-1512. 
As many centuries have done their work in the dimming 
of colors and in cracking of plaster. 

Time has dealt even less kindly with the Last Judg¬ 
ment, which occupies the whole of the altar wall, some 
sixty feet in breadth. Begun twenty-two years after the 
ceiling was completed, it represents the same unrivaled 
master, who gave seven years to this great work, discard¬ 
ing all the architectural restraints which he had im¬ 
posed upon himself in the earlier frescoes. 

It is that Day of Wrath in all its terrors, foreseen by 
Prophet and Sibyl, and foreshadowed in those wonderful 
figures of the ceiling. Most conspicuous, above the cen¬ 
tre, is Christ the stern Judge, in figure a Hercules. By 
his side is the shrinking Virgin, while apostles and saints 
and martyrs complete the central group, below which 
angels are sounding the last trump. 

On the left saints rise to take their places at the 
Judge’s right; on his left sinners are hurried down to 

107 


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Map 


punishment, where Charon and his boat upon a pagan 
Styx call to mind that strange mingling of classical with 
Christian ideas which marked the age of the Renaissance. 

As if to atone for these touches of paganism, two 
groups of angels at the extreme top of the picture are 
bearing the instruments of the Passion,—on the left the 
cross, on the right the column of the scourging. 

Overpowered and confused by the almost superhuman 
greatness of the artist, from whose personality there is 
no escape, we turn at last with a sigh of relief to the more 
human works which adorn the side walls beneath the 
lofty windows,—a series representing on the one side (the 
right) the life of Christ, and on the other that of Moses. 
Painted soon after the erection of the chapel (1473) by 
some of Michael Angelo’s celebrated masters and elder 
contemporaries, in any other situation they would arouse 
interest, but here are lost in the spell of a greater genius. 

When one is weary of pictures the chapel is in itself a 
study in simple proportions, nobler than many churches, - 
worthy of its high privilege as the scene of jubilees and 
all the strictly papal functions; for since 1870 the Pope 
has rarely officiated in person at any ceremonies in St. 
Peter s, and that only within recent years. Beyond the 
basilica and the gardens of the Vatican, he is never seen 
outside the limits of the palace in which he is a voluntary 
prisoner. 

From the Sistine Chapel we retrace our steps down the 
stairs, along the corridor, past the Swiss Guards again, 
and out through the Bronze Doors. And now we have a 
long walk before us. For the authorities of the Vatican 
have calmly assumed that no one will dream of visiting 
all its treasures in one day. Certainly we shall do well 

108 


7 


HOME 


No. 29 


to re-cross the piazza to a neighboring restaurant, and 
satisfy the peculiar hunger of the sight-seer. 

Returning to St. Peter’s once more we pass under the 
low arch beneath the southern end of the huge facade, 
and then under two more arches beneath the corridors 
which connect the church with its huge domed sacristy. 
We skirt the gigantic foundations of St. Peter’s, around 
the west end of the church, then keep on through a pic¬ 
turesque and irregular court of the older palace, near 
the altar eftd of the Sistine Chapel. More arches bring 
us into a long, straight lane between the blank wall of the 
garden and the west side of the Vatican,—coach houses 
below and Library above. The lane climbs, as it nears its 
end before a domed pavilion, which is the entrance to the 
Library and the Sculpture Gallery. It is not less than 
three-quarters of a mile from the Bronze Doors! 

39 . The Vatican Library. 

This is the central hall of the Library, massively 
vaulted, and divided into two aisles by a series of six 
piers. The fresco decorations, though in inferior taste, 
have a certain splendor and a warmth of color which 
atones for many faults. Just why a library should be 
so gorgeously decorated is a question one cannot help 
asking. And on looking about for the books, and finding 
none, we are tempted to think that this is not a library 
at all, but only a state apartment for show and nothing 
else. Compared with other famous libraries the complete 
absence of books, so far as the eye can see, is the most 
striking and at the same time the most unaccountable 
feature of the Vatican Library. Other great collections 
of books would keep their rarest treasures in places of 
safety, but the less valuable books would be freely dis¬ 
played on all sides. It is the unique habit of the Vatican 

109 


No. 29 


ITALY 


Map 


to conceal all its precious volumes—in fact, nearly all 
the books contained in the rooms to which visitors have 
access—in low cases against the walls, or ranged around 
the piers in the centre of the hall. Paneled doors, richly 
painted, cut off the view completely. And except for a 
few glass cases mounted upon tables to display certain 
manuscripts of the greatest celebrity, one may wander 
about this sumptuous hall without seeing a single book. 
We might imagine that these cases contained the papal 
robes, or even the palace linen, had we not* been assured 
by the custodian that we were in the Library. This pecul¬ 
iar arrangement, adopted, for the literary treasures of 
the Vatican, had its special reasons in the desire to imi¬ 
tate an ancient library, with its wall-presses for papyrus 
rolls. And no library in the world so faithfully repro¬ 
duces the character of a public library in ancient Rome. 
The vases adorning the book cabinets are all ancient pot¬ 
tery, while the candelabra and other objects dispersed 
about this long hall are gifts to recent popes,—Sevres 
vases, Russian malachite, Berlin porcelain, etc. 

In the glass show-cases we find some of the .most famous 
manuscripts, among them a codex of Terence of the 
fourth century, a Vergil of the fifth, a Greek New Testa¬ 
ment of the fifth, and the sole existing manuscript of the 
Republic of Cicero (fourth century), written over with 
a later text of St. Augustine in a smaller hand. These 
parchments are known to scholars the world over. It is 
in such unique examples that the fame of the Vatican 
Library consists. In other libraries there are few books 
which could nowhere else be duplicated. At the Vatican 
the printed books, although some two hundred thousand 
in number, are relegated to crowded storerooms below, 
while the place of honor is given to the priceless manu¬ 
scripts, of which there are more than twenty thousand 

110 


7 


ROME 


No. 29 


in Latin and Greek. It was for these that the closed 
cabinets were built and placed against the walls and 
piers,—and not in this hall alone, but also the whole 
length of that long corridor through which we entered, 
extending down one entire side of the palace, a distance 
of a thousand feet, divided only by broad doorways that 
are never closed. The main hall, in which we now are, 
is a wing built in 1588 across from one side of the 
palace to the other, dividing the great court of Bra- 
mante into two courts, of which one has been still further 
divided by the New Wing. (Braccio Nuovo ) of the Sculp¬ 
ture Gallery. The windows look down into these courts, 
and the outside world is completely excluded from this 
palatial home of classical learning, the Mecca of scholarly 
pilgrims ever since the middle of the fifteenth century, 
when the present collection of manuscripts was begun by 
Nicholas V. 

It is but a step from the Library to the Gallery of 
Sculptures, but the length of hall and corridor to be 
traversed in seeing the statues is scarcely less than those 
magnificent distances of the Vatican Library. We are 
not long in reaching the conviction that no other collec¬ 
tion of sculptures in the world is so magnificently housed. 
Vaulted halls of every shape, paved with variegated mar¬ 
bles, and adorned with costly columns and over-elaborate 
carvings, all suggest a princely lavishness, which is far 
removed from the commonplaceness of the typical muse¬ 
um. And an historic interest in halls once inhabited by 
famous pontiffs adds something indefinable, but real, to 
the impression. 

30. The Gallery of Statues, Vatican Palace. 

This particular hall was never planned for the exhibi- 


111 


No. 30 


ITALY 


Map 


tion of statues to a world of tourists armed with Baede¬ 
kers, but for the refined luxury of Pope Innocent VIII, 
who shortly before the discovery of America built for 
himself a casino, or summer-house, far away from the 
palace as it then existed, and beyond the walls. Of this 
pleasure-house, called the Belvedere from its command¬ 
ing view of Rome, the Gallery of Statues formed a part. 

But the villas of Italian prelates and princes were 
often adorned with works of ancient sculpture. And 
many of the popes were great collectors. So the Belve¬ 
dere became in time over-populated with statues, and 
the pontiffs of the last two centuries bestirred themselves 
to provide ampler quarters for their collections by turn¬ 
ing to this use corridors already existing, or by erecting 
new halls. It was not until about the time of our Revolu¬ 
tion that this gallery became a museum of sculpture. 
Other galleries of the Vatican are more imposing in their 
size, others contain a vastly larger number of statues, 
but none is more characteristic of its general air and its 
perfect order. 

In the foreground we see an ancient basin for a foun¬ 
tain, from the court of some Roman house. Beyond it an 
alabaster urn for the ashes of the dead, and also in ala¬ 
baster, but of a less costly kind, a Roman bath-tub. The 
vase does not quite conceal the beautiful form of the 
Sleeping Ariadne,—sleeping the troubled sleep in which 
she was deserted by Theseus and claimed by Dionysus. 
It was a favorite subject for ancient paintings and re¬ 
liefs. In Raphael’s time this statue stood by a fountain 
in the garden of the Belvedere. 

On either side of the Ariadne rises a superb marble 
candelabrum from Hadrian’s villa at Tivoli. Close to 
the columns in the middle distance, dividing the statues 
from the busts, sit Menander and Posidippus, with their 

112 


ROME 


No. 30 


backs to us, celebrated Attic statues of two comic 
poets,—a study in Greek chairs and drapery, as well as 
in living portraiture. 

On our left are ranged rows of busts, among them 
some of the emperors and a Cicero. One bust in basalt 
stands upon a black marble column, spirally fluted after 
the late Roman manner. 

But apart from the individual works which attract at¬ 
tention, the Gallery of Statues is in itself a beautiful 
vista,—these long lines of converging statues, carrying 
the eye to the Sleeping Ariadne in the distance. And yet 
this is but a single gallery among many, some far larger, 
some even richer in treasures of Greek and Roman art. 

The popes have been great collectors from the fifteenth 
century on, and with enlightened interest, centuries of 
time and unlimited resources, it is no wonder that the 
Vatican collection of sculptures still retains the fore¬ 
most place, in spite of more recent rivals in the British 
Museum and the Louvre, or at Berlin and Munich and 
Athens, or even the Capitoline and other museums in 
Rome itself. 

Within a few steps of the Gallery of the Statues is the 
octagonal court of the Belvedere. The sculptures of the 
court itself are not of great importance, but there are 
four pavilions, or cabinets, containing some of the best 
known works in the entire museum, among them the 
Apollo, the Hermes (Antinous), and the Laocoon. 

jr. The haocoon, Vatican Museum. 

This celebrated group was found in 1506 on the 
Esquiline Hill, not far from the Baths of Titus. Its 
discovery was one of the sensations of the time, and it 
was immediately identified with a group described as 


113 


No. 31 


ITALY 


Map 


standing in the palace of Titus by the Elder Pliny, the 
author of the Natural History, himself a victim of that 
great catastrophe of Titus’s reign, the eruption of Vesu¬ 
vius. According to Pliny it was the work of three Greek 
sculptors of the island of Rhodes, Agesander, Polydoros, 
and Athenodoros, and was to be preferred to all other 
works of painting and sculpture. It was also stated by 
Pliny that the group was made from a single block of 
marble, which does not prove to be the case with the 
group now before us. 

The story of Laocoon is well known to everyone from 
a passage in the second book of the iEneid of Vergil. 
Laocoon, the priest of Neptune at Troy, endeavors 
to persuade the Trojans not to accept from the Greeks 
the suspicious gift of the wooden horse. But this honest 
attempt to defend his native city was an act of hostility 
toward the gods who favored the Greeks. Hence the di¬ 
vine punishment. From Tenedos, the island off Troy, 
come two great serpents which make straight for La¬ 
ocoon’s two sons. After these have been fatally bitten, 
while the frenzied father comes to their defence, he too is 
entangled in the fatal coils, and neither heroic efforts to 
release himself nor loud cries to heaven delay his horrible 
fate. 

But a glance at the group shows that Vergil, if he had 
ever seen this work of the Rhodian sculptors, was en¬ 
tirely independent of it in his narrative. On the other 
hand it is equally evident that the authors of this work 
have not followed either Vergil himself, if their age could 
allow, or the same tradition which the poet accepted. 
The story was differently told by different writers, and 
more commonly Laocoon was described as a priest of 
Apollo, and as having offended that god by forgetting 

114 


7 


ROME 


No. 31 


the sanctity of his temple. In this version but one of the 
sons was killed by the serpents with his father, while the 
other escaped. 

In the group before us Goethe observed that the son 
on the right, the elder, has still a chance to escape, since 
but one arm (restored) and one ankle are held in the 
coils. But he is fascinated by the sight, and filled with 
sympathy for his father’s agony, he cannot think of 
himself. 

The other son is beyond all hope of escape, tightly held 
in the grip of the serpent which has bitten him below 
the left breast. The left hand grasps the hideous head, 
but is too relaxed to offer a real resistance. The uplifted 
right arm is a modern restoration; in the original the 
arm must have been bent over the drooping head. 

The right arm of Laocoon himself has also been falsely 
restored, destroying the pyramidal symmetry of the ori¬ 
ginal group. No doubt the right hand was close to the 
ear, and the whole position more natural, if less Hercu¬ 
lean, than in this restoration. Attacked while perform¬ 
ing sacrifice, and wearing a bronze wreath, of which 
there are indications behind, the father, with the younger 
son, has been drawn back against the altar. While the 
son’s struggles are over, and he is drawing his last breath, 
the father has just felt the bite of the second serpent; 
writhing with pain, he makes one supreme effort to 
free himself. The lips are open, as he utters a cry of 
anguish. The face is drawn in an agony that expresses 
itself in every line. Muscles and veins stand out upon 
the body and limbs with the tension of a desperate strug¬ 
gle. Yet he is not attempting to rise or to escape; and 
the left hand clutches wildly at the body of the serpent. 
Fear has paralyzed intelligence and reduced everything 
to mere instinct. 


115 


No. 31 


ITALY 


Maps 


The group is closely related in its style to the Farnese 
Bull,* in Naples, and the whole aim of its sculptors was 
not to tell a tragic story, but to express the supreme mo¬ 
ment of the tragedy. It is in striking contrast with the 
inward anguish of an inexpressible grief as suggested in 
the Pietd of Michael Angelo.f Here all is outward and 
physical, nothing spiritual, except in the face of the 
older son. That the sons should be so much smaller than 
their father, although they verge upon maturity, was in 
accordance with Greek custom, as adding emphasis to the 
principal figure and securing a pyramidal group. 

For the date of the Laocoon the critics are left to con¬ 
jecture, and guesses have been ranged all the way from 
the Alexandrian age to the reign of Titus. But we may 
reasonably prefer the earlier date, and assume that it 
could not have been later than the second century before 
Christ, and more probably falls within the limits of the 
third. 


A DAY IN THE EORUM 

After an entire day at St. Peter’s and the Vatican, we 
have resolved to devote another day to the ruins in and 
about the Forum. Our first view from the stairs of the 
Capitol, near the Temple of Saturn,{ has prepared us to 
locate in a general way the chief monuments which sur¬ 
round that historic market-place. But another view from 
a higher level will be the best possible introduction to a 
more serious and detailed study. 

32. The Forum, General View from the Tower of the 
Capitol. 

We have climbed the tower of the Capitol to look down 


♦See No. 7 
tSee No. 25. 

jSee No. 21. 


116 



5, 6, 9 


ROME 


No. 32 


upon the Forum.* The view extends over the whole 
tangled mass of ruins from the foot of the Capitol to the 
Colosseum and up the northern face of the Palatine. On 
our right the Basilica Julia spreads out before us its vast 
expanse of marble floor reaching to the Tuscan Street 
(Vicus Tuscus) at the three columns of the Temple of 
Castor and Pollux. At the nearer end, almost at our 
feet, we discover the top of the Temple of Saturn,f show¬ 
ing but one of its heavy granite columns. 

By the basilica runs the Sacred Way, rudely paved in 
some late imperial restoration. At various points it has 
been opened for deeper excavations. In front of the 
Castor temple, or the Three Columns, on their massive 
concrete foundations, an older paving of the Sacred Way 
in large slabs is clearly seen. To the left of this is the 
low ruin of the Temple of Julius Caesar, showing a dark 
mass of concrete and a few marble steps. This temple 
marked the limits of the Forum in that direction, all that 
lies beyond, and is now carelessly included in the name 
Forum, being anciently beyond its precincts. 

To the left rises the Temple of Antoninus and Faus¬ 
tina, now a church, rearing its green marble columns 
high above the level of the street. The ruins lying be¬ 
tween us and that temple along the left side of the Forum 
are the remains of the other great basilica, the /Emilia , 
excavated in 1900. Directly below us on the left we have 
the deep cuttings of recent excavations, and a bit of the 
Arch of Septimius Severus % To the right of the broad 
trench stand the two marble reliefs, whose original pur¬ 
pose remains a mystery. Even at this distance good eyes 
will make out at the left an emperor standing upon the 


♦See map 6. 
tSee No. 21. 
JSee No. 33. 


117 



No. 32 


ITALY 


Maps 


platform of the Rostra, while before him other figures 
lift their hands in acclamation. 

In the foreground, upon the lofty base, is the col¬ 
umn of Phocas, the very latest monument in the Forum. 
Plundered from some relic of a better time, this Corinth¬ 
ian shaft was erected here in the beginning of the seventh 
century in honor of an emperor of Constantinople. 
Other smaller columns on cubical bases of concrete, and 
similar bases with fragments of columns at their feet, 
line the Sacred Way. In its present state the open space 
of the Forum is much obstructed, not only by these mon¬ 
uments, but by piles of broken marble covering a large 
part of its pavement. 

This is the Forum in the narrowest sense, extending 
from the Rostra by the Arch of Severus, to the Temple 
of Julius Caasar, a distance of less than 400 feet. So 
small was this, the most historic spot in Europe. 

Behind the temple just named, at a turn in the street, 
we see the ruins of the Regia, the official residence of the 
Pontifex Maximus, and as such occupied by Julius 
CiBsar. Shops and other buildings follow in the direction 
of the Colosseum, but we can see with great clearness that 
the direction of the Sacred Way has been changed. On its 
left is the round temple of the princelet Romulus, son of 
Maxentius (fourth century); beyond this the gable and 
roof of the Temple of the Sacred City, and appearing 
above the last, the huge arches of the Basilica of Con¬ 
stantine. 

To the right of these, and directly facing us, is the 
church of a Roman saint, Francesca, with a seventeenth 
century front and a slender medieval campanile, which 
will give us our best view of the Forum from the east 
end.* Here stood Hadrian’s great double Temple of 


•See No. 36. 


118 



5 , 6 


ROME 


No. 32 


Venus and Rome. Directly above the tower, beyond the 
Colosseum, we see the quaint pile of another church, the 
Four Martyrs, and beyond that, reaching the horizon, 
the towers, colossal statues, and obelisk of the Lateran. 

Returning to the right of S. Francesca Romana, the 
Arch of Titus* stands out prominently at the highest 
part of the Sacred Way. Above it we see the Arch of 
Constantine, the groves of the Caelian, and finally a 
glimpse of the Campagna. 

Between the Arch of Titus and the Three Columns lie 
first a mass of confused ruins, and then the clear outlines 
of the palace of the Vestals, the Atrium of Vesta, its 
great court occupying one of the costliest sites in the 
city. Between the nearest corner of this court and the 
adjacent turn in the Sacred Way, we may make out the 
circular mass of concrete, which remains, with a few 
marble fragments, to tell the story of the Temple of 
Vesta, the hearthstone of the Roman state. Behind the 
Three Columns is another mass of ruins, brought to light 
by the most recent excavations, and containing, at the 
right, the sacred fountain of Juturna. Above the last 
rise the mighty substructions of the Palatine and the 
trees of its gardens. A great staircase once ascended 
from the Forum behind the Castor temple to the Palace 
of Caligula. Over the Palatine we see two of the best 
known churches of the Caelian, the convent church of St. 
John and St. Paul (not the Apostles), and beyond it the 
round church of St. Stephen. But it is rather upon the 
foreground that the thoughts dwell while looking down 
from the Capitol, and recalling, not so much single 
events, or individuals, as the national life which be¬ 
queathed so large a part of itself to our western civiliza- 


♦See No. 35. 


119 



No. 33 


ITALY 


Map 


tion, and thus hallowed this small spot of earth to the end 
of time. 

A long detour brings us down from our lofty perch 
upon the bell-tower of the Palace of the Senator, first 
to the level of the streets surrounding the Forum, and 
then to the ancient paving far below. We begin with the 
monuments beneath the Capitol,—the ruins which were 
directly below us as we looked down from the Campido- 
glio. 

33. Balustrades of the Rostra, and Arch of Septimius 
Severus. 

After a visit to the Vatican sculptures it is not strange 
that the first thing in the Forum to attract our special 
attention should be a sculptured relief, not a work to be 
compared in any respect with the Laocoon, but still of 
interest as a Roman representation of a Roman scene. 
It is of the time of Trajan (98-117 A. D.), and the back¬ 
ground of the relief represents the buildings which 
looked down upon the Forum. The event commemorated 
by the sculptor took place then just where we are now 
standing,—that is, directly in front of the Rostra,—the 
speaker’s platform, which is concealed for the moment by 
these great sculptured slabs of marble. 

A crowd of soldiers, most of them now headless, are 
bearing bundles of tablets toward the right of the scene. 
These are the records of unpaid taxes, which the em¬ 
peror has generously remitted. The tablets are to be 
burned publicly in the presence of the emperor. An 
official stoops to apply the torch. Unhappily the right- 
hand slab is missing, and with it the figure of Trajan, ex¬ 
cept for a part of the legs and of a hand. He was sitting 
upon the Rostra, facing the crowd, and the front of the 
platform has been indicated in the lower right-hand cor- 

120 


ROME 


No. 33 


ner by one or two of the actual rostra , or ship’s beaks, a 
long double row of which adorned the real platform, in 
memory of a naval victory gained in 338 B. C. In the 
background behind this representation of the Rostra is a 
temple-front with six Corinthian columns,—the Temple 
of Vespasian. To the left is another temple with Ionic 
columns. In this it is easy to recognize the Temple of Sat¬ 
urn.* On the left the long side of the Basilica Julia is 
also represented, but it is now difficult to make out in the 
present condition of this relief. Its mate stands behind, 
the top being visible over the heads of the tablet-bearing 
figures. Of the similar sculptures of that relief we had 
a distant view from the Capitol.f The inward faces are 
also sculptured, but with large figures of a boar, a ram, 
and a bull on the way to sacrifice. 

It has been conjectured that these reliefs formed part 
of a sculptured balustrade for the Rostra as restored by 
Trajan. But at some time they have been moved from 
their original site, and there is no means of deciding with 
certainty what was their purpose. Whatever end they 
may have served, their chief interest now is the fact that 
they picture for us actual occurrences in the Forum in 
the time of the Empire. 

A whole corner of the Forum is occupied by the huge 
triumphal arch of Septimus Severus. It has one great 
central archway, and two smaller arches for foot-passen¬ 
gers. Corinthian columns upon stilted bases bear the 
entablature, which supports a lofty attica, that in its 
turn once sustained a great display of sculpture in 
bronze,—Severus himself driving a six-horse chariot, 
while a Victory placed a crown upon his head. There 
were also statues of his sons Caracalla and Geta, and other 


♦See No. 21. 
fSee No. 32. 


121 



No. 33 


ITALY 


Map 


equestrian statues at the four corners of the arch. But 
these sculptures have all disappeared, and the marble re¬ 
liefs which cover whole surfaces of the arch are sadly 
mutilated. These represent scenes from the Parthian 
campaign of the soldier-emperor, who fought in nearly 
every quarter of the Roman world, subdued the great 
enemy in the East, the Parthian, and finally died at 
York in 211 A. D., while endeavoring to complete the 
conquest of Britain. The arch, which is of Pentelic 
marble, was erected in 203 in commemoration of the con¬ 
quest of Parthia. The proud inscription dedicates this 
triumphal monument to Severus and Caracalla, with all 
their high-sounding titles. Geta too was named, but 
after his murder by Caracalla in 211 the inscription was 
altered, and more titles took the place of the obliterated 
line,—the fourth from the top. But as we can readily 
see, the alteration betrays itself in the depression of the 
surface. The letters were of bronze, but these have been 
carried away, and nothing remains but the sockets cut in 
the marble. 

On our right, and below the arch, recent excavations 
have been carried on beneath the present paving of the 
Forum. The discoveries around the “ Black Stone ” 
carry us back to the early days of Rome, and form a 
striking contrast to the Arch of Severus. 

Behind the arch and to the right, is the church which 
stands above the Tullianum, or Mamertine Prison, fa¬ 
mous in the annals of republican Rome, as the scene of 
the execution of Jugurtha, the African king, and of the 
conspirators who supported the infamous Catiline in the 
consulship of Cicero. According to Christian tradition 
St. Peter was also imprisoned in that historic dungeon. 

Through the central arch we see stairs ascending to the 
Capitol. These too, or their ancient predecessors, had 

122 


6 


ROME 


No 33 


their place in the history of Roman executions. For 
upon these Scalce Gemonice, or Stairs of Sighs, the bodies 
of the unfortunates were exposed. 

On the left rises the lofty wall of the Palace of the Sen¬ 
ator. The upper part is medieval, but the lower half 
dates from 78 B. C. It is a massive wall, at first an al¬ 
most solid substruction. Above it had at least one story, 
probably two, of open arcades with half-columns. Those 
that remain are of the Doric order. The building was 
the public record-office and was called the Tabularium. 
Directly in front of it stood the Temple of Concord, but 
of this we find very scanty remains, mostly beyond the 
modern street which crosses this end of the Forum. We 
can see at the left a dark mass of concrete just above 
Trajan’s reliefs. This sustained the marble steps of the 
temple. But in restoring the Temple of Concord in im¬ 
agination one must think away every vestige of the Arch 
of Severus, which was planted directly in front of it, 
with that reckless disregard of older structures which 
often marked the triumphal memorials of the late em¬ 
perors. And even in an earlier day the crowding of 
buildings about the Forum is difficult to appreciate. 

From the region of the Rostra and the Arch of Severus 
we pick our way through heaps of marble fragments and 
then follow the Sacred Way, past the Temple of Castor 
and Pollux, with its three columns, and the desolate ruin 
—a mere foundation—of the Temple of Vesta. We could 
spend hours or even days in studying the remains of a 
single building, such as the stately House of the 
Vestals, beneath the picturesque slope of the Pala¬ 
tine. On the other side we pass the Temples of Antoni¬ 
nus and Romulus, and still following the winding course 
of the Sacra Via , we are brought again to the ruins be- 

123 


No. 34 


ITALY 


Ma 


neath the Palatine near the Arch of Titus. Climbing up 
for the view we look across to the Basilica of Constan¬ 
tine. 


34. Basilica of Constantine. 

These mighty arches are the chief object, at least in 
point of size and general impressiveness, between the 
Forum and the Colosseum. As compared with the col¬ 
umns of the Forum temples, we seem to have reached an¬ 
other age, with absolutely different methods in architec¬ 
ture,—an age indifferent to the old-fashioned columns 
and pediments, and seeking after something bolder and 
more massive. The contrast marks the great revolution 
which separates the builders of the Republic and the 
early Empire from their successors in the second, third, 
and fourth centuries. New methods of construction led 
to experiments in new forms, and in reality a new archi¬ 
tecture had to be created. Thanks to the abundant sup¬ 
ply of volcanic materials of great strength and lightness, 
the Romans of the Empire began to construct vaults in 
concrete, and of a much greater span than had been at¬ 
tempted before. While the older basilicas had provided 
ample space for crowds of busy people, they had con¬ 
tented themselves with flat wooden roofs. Even the 
great basilica of Julius Caesar, and that of Trajan, fol 
lowed the old method of construction,—many piers or 
columns dividing the space into aisles, and then a flat 
roof over the nave. 

The basilica which Maxentius had begun, but left un¬ 
finished when defeated by Constantine (312 A. D.), bor¬ 
rowed its construction from the Baths of Caracal la.* 
Points of support were to be few, leaving vast spaces of 


•See No. 58. 


124 



ROME 


No. 34 


unobstructed floor, and instead of the inflammable roofs, 
which had often meant the destruction of previous basili¬ 
cas, this new exchange was to have a vaulting of solid 
masonry, such as could be destroyed by nothing less 
than an earthquake. 

Earthquakes have done their work, however, and what 
we see represents less than one-third of the entire edifice. 
Before these immense arches spreads out a vast platform, 
raised considerably above the level of the street. It was 
not a mere terrace before the building, but simply a 
floor, every portion of which was covered by the lofty 
vaulting of the basilica. In plan the building consisted 
of a broad nave, extending from right to left, parallel 
to the street. But'instead of the side-aisles, as in St. 
Peter’s, for example, the architect provided additional 
space by a system of three transepts side by side. What 
remains is merely one-half of each. 

The transepts are 78 feet in height and 66 feet in 
width, though a single span covers their whole breadth. 
The vaulting, faced with brick in the form of an arch, 
as we may plainly see even at this distance, was not an 
arch in principle, but a solid mass of concrete which has 
hardened into rock, so that, immense as is the weight sus¬ 
pended at such a height above the floor, there was no fear 
that it would prove too great for its supports. The un¬ 
der surface of the vaulting is relieved by coffered panels 
of great size. The central transept has an apse. Here 
certainly a court of justice sat. There was another great 
apse at the west end (left) of the nave. At its further 
end, towards the Colosseum, was an entrance hall or ves¬ 
tibule. 

When we come to restore the fallen nave it is difficult 
to bring ourselves to the belief that such proportions 
were possible. The nave was 80 feet in width and 

125 


No. 31 


ITALY 


Map 


112 feet high. Of its lofty vaulting three fragments re¬ 
main, with portions of the marble capitals which ap¬ 
peared to support them. In reality the tall columns 
which once bore these capitals were merely to satisfy the 
eye, for the vaulting would have stood without the col¬ 
umns. The effect of the interior must have been some¬ 
what like that of the nave of St. Peter’s, especially in its 
great height and breadth, and the general sense of colos¬ 
sal proportions. Above the transepts were broad win¬ 
dows as in the great halls of the baths. 

But one must clothe these masses of brick-faced con¬ 
crete with their original linings of variegated marbles, 
and stucco painted and gilded, in order to restore the 
sumptuousness of the old basilica as it stood in the days 
of Constantine. Of its wealth in precious marbles and 
rare stones little now remains, but in front we see some 
fragments of columns in red porphyry from Egypt, now 
set up, perhaps incorrectly, by the entrance from the 
Sacred Way. 

Below us runs the Nova Via, through a mass of ruins. 
But nothing of historic importance has been unearthed 
here,—nothing which could distract our attention from 
the imposing masses and the deep shadows of the Basilica 
of Constantine. 

Turning to the left a few steps will bring us to the 
most important of all the triumphal arches in Rome. 

35 • The Arch of Titus. 

We are standing by the Sacred Way, at the crest of 
the little hill called the Velia. It is this elevated posi¬ 
tion which makes the Arch of Titus a landmark, when¬ 
ever one finds himself lost for the moment in the maze 
of ancient ruins. And from this eminence we command 

126 


G 


ROME 


No. 35 


a distant view of the Forum. High above it all is the 
tower of the Campidoglio, from which we looked down 
upon the ruins of the Forum.* Below the tower is the 
Palace of the Senator, mediaeval above—with an ob¬ 
servatory crowning the square tower at the angle—but 
ancient in its lower portions. To the right of the ob¬ 
servatory is the church of Aracoeli on the Capitol. 
Below it the Arch of Severus, and the church which 
stands over the Mamertine Prison. To the left we see 
two of the three columns of Vespasian’s temple and 
an angle of the Temple of Saturn. Lower down the 
Column of Phocas and two other similar monuments rise 
out of the confused mass of ruins. Through the arch 
appears the round temple of Maxentius’s son, Romulus, 
and the roofs of two other temples, converted into 
churches,—that of Antoninus and, to the right, that of 
the Sacred City. There is also a small arched portico. 
At the right of the arch is the western end of the Basilica 
of Constantine. 

But we are enjoying the distant view and indulging in 
the pleasure of identifying one after another our new¬ 
found friends, the monuments of ancient Rome, instead 
of studying the arch before us. It certainly has many 
other attractions to commend it, besides its elevated 
position. 

In the first place it is a historical monument of great 
importance. The campaign which brought to Titus the 
honors of a triumph, and then, years afterward, this 
triumphal arch, was the last in the protracted war with 
the Jews. Vespasian, his father, had been proclaimed 
emperor by his troops in the year 69 A. D., and with the 
aid of the armies of the East had defeated his rival, 
Vitellius, whom the armies of the Rhine had combined 


*See No. 32. 


127 



No. 35 


ITALY 


Map 


to place upon the throne a few months before. To 
Titus then was left the completion of the Jewish War. 
After a long and memorable siege in the year 70, he 
succeeded in taking Jerusalem. The city was destroyed 
and the sacred treasures of the Temple were brought to 
Rome, to grace the triumph of Vespasian and Titus in 
the next year. The relief on the inner face of 
the arch represents Titus in the triumphal chariot. 
On the opposite side (the left) we shall find the very 
celebrated scene from the procession,—the sacred vessels 
of the Temple borne in triumph. Among them the 
golden candlestick with seven branches is the most con¬ 
spicuous. These golden spoils were deposited in Ves¬ 
pasian’s Temple of Peace, only a short distance away, 
behind that Temple of the Sacred City through the arch. 
And there they remained until the Vandals carried them 
off to Africa in the fifth century. Restored to Constan¬ 
tinople in the sixth century, they were returned at last 
to Jerusalem, only to be carried away by the Persians 
in the seventh, and never heard of again. 

Quite apart from its historical significance the Arch 
of Titus has a place of its own in Roman architecture, 
as the first example of the perfected type of the triumph¬ 
al arch, and of that more pleasing and less ponderous 
sort which has but a single arch. In perfection of pro¬ 
portions no later arch can claim superiorit}^. Un¬ 
fortunately it was built over with a tower in the middle 
ages and formed part of the stronghold of one of the 
warlike Roman families, the Frangipani. In this way 
it has suffered serious losses. In fact only the central 
part remains. The rest was restored in 1823. But 
the white travertine of the restoration can be in¬ 
stantly distinguished from the sun-browned Pentelic 
marble of the genuine portion. 

128 


ROME 


No. 35 


Fluted columns mark the angles of the piers and stand 
upon a lofty base. The capitals are of the 11 composite ” 
order, that is, a mixture of Corinthian with Ionic. 
And this is said to be the oldest example of that type, 
so frequently used in later buildings. The broad key¬ 
stone bears a sculptured figure, Rome on one side, For¬ 
tune on the other. On either side in the spandrils are 
Victories. The frieze is sculptured in small figures. 
The attica bears the inscription in clear letters, although 
the bronze has been removed from these marble sockets, 
as from the Arch of Severus. The inscription simply 
says, “ The Senate and the Roman People to the deified 
Titus Vespasianus Augustus, son of the deified Ves¬ 
pasian. n That the title, “ deified,” was used is a proof 
that the short reign of Titus (79-81) was over, and hence, 
that Domitian had erected this arch in memory of his 
brother, or permitted the senate to order its erection. 
From the top of the arch the bronze sculpture has dis¬ 
appeared. It must always be supplied in judging of the 
effect of a Roman triumphal arch. For while we are 
apt to think of the arch as a beautiful form in itself, 
or capable of beauty, to the Romans it was chiefly a 
pedestal of great height, raised above the street through 
which the procession had passed, in order to support the 
triumphal sculpture to which all the rest was subor¬ 
dinate. 

From the Arch of Titus, with its memories of the de¬ 
struction of Jerusalem, we cross over to the Church of 
Santa Francesca Romana, by the southern angle 
of the Basilica of Constantine. We climb the tall 
mediaeval tower for the view of the whole Forum 
region. 


129 


No. 36 


ITALY 


Maps 


36. The Forum from the Fast. 

At our feet on the right is the broad floor of the 
Basilica of Constantine. The broken columns of red 
porphyry mark the entrance from the Sacred Way. The 
piers which once sustained the mighty vaulting have 
been destroyed, almost down to the level of the floor. 
But at the western end one piece of substantial concrete 
wall remains. Over this is the tiled roof of the Temple 
of the Sacred City, which appears to have contained the 
municipal records of Rome. The end wall to the right 
was adorned with a plan of the city, engraved upon 
marble slabs. These still exist in part, in the Con- 
servatori Museum, and are of the greatest importance 
for the study of the ancient city. The building dates 
partly from the time of Vespasian (78 A. D.) and partly 
from that of Septimius Severus (193-211). It has been 
a church since the sixth century, under the name of 
Sts. Cosmas and Damianus. 

The round building with a cupola to the left of the 
church and incorporated with it, was the Temple of 
Romulus,—not the legendary founder of Rome, but the 
son of Constantine’s rival, Maxentius. Over the dome 
appear the columns of the temple of Antoninus and 
Faustina. That emperor, the adoptive father of the 
philosopher-emperor, Marcus Aurelius, built the temple 
in memory of his wife, Faustina. who died in 141 A. D.; 
but after his death (161) his name was also added to 
the dedicatory inscription. The columns are of the 
variegated green and white marble from the Greek 
island of Euboea, known as cipollino. A sculptured 
frieze can be seen even from this distance. The pedi¬ 
ment has disappeared, and the temple was much dis¬ 
guised by its conversion into a church of St. Lawrence. 
Over the roof of this church is that of another, Sant’ 


130 


5, 6, 9 


ROME 


No. 36 


Adriano, very similar, but provided with a belfry and a 
small dome. This is historically of far more importance, 
since it was once the senate-house, or curia, as restored 
by Diocletian. The old republican senate-house lay 
somewhat further back from the Forum, behind the 
large dome of Santa Martina. 

Above and to the left of S. Martina we see the long 
church of Aracoeli on the Capitol. Next comes one end 
of the Capitoline Museum, built by Michael Angelo. 
Directly below this are the stairs descending to the 
Forum, the “ Stairs of Sighs.”* On their right the 
Church of St. Joseph, which stands over the Mamertine 
Prison, and on its left the Arch of Septimius 
Severus. 

But the Palace of the Senator fills nearly the whole 
background as we look down the length of the Forum 
from this point of view. Below is the old wall of the 
Tabularium, from the time of the Republic, retaining 
some indications of its architectural forms. Above, a 
plain wall in three or four stories, of mediaeval and 
modern date. On the right the mediaeval tower; at one 
time the building was provided with four such towers 
at the angles. This one is crowned now by an observa¬ 
tory. In the centre is the tall and graceful campanile, 
or bell-tower, while over the roofs of the building, and to 
the left of the central tower, the dome of St. Peter’s 
stands out clearly in the distance. To the left of the 
dome we have the outline of the Janiculum, the highest 
of the Roman hills. The western crest of the Capitoline 
is marked by a mass of buildings,—in part the Caffarelli 
Palace, now the German embassy. 

At the left of the Tabularium we see the stairs de¬ 
scending, and recognize the corner from which we took 


♦See No. 33. 


131 



No. 36 


ITALY 


Maps 


our first general view of the Forum.* Just to the right 
of that point, and below, is a portico of small columns, 
that of the Twelve Gods, whose shrines lie behind the 
columns. In front or to the right of these we recognize 
the heavy granite columns of the Saturn temple, then 
to the right the three columns of Vespasian’s temple. 
One of the columns, however, disappears behind its 
companion. Still further to the right, and above the 
street which crosses the Forum close to the Arch of 
Severus, we see the foundation of the Temple of Con¬ 
cord. 

Below the Temple of Vespasian stands the Column of 
Phocas on its high base. To the right of the last, good 
eyes can make out Trajan’s reliefs, and beyond them the 
ruins of the Rostra.f But the area of the Forum is a 
confused mass,—on its left margin two monumental 
columns, and the bases of others on the Sacred Way, 
which runs by the broad floor of Julius Caesar’s basilica, 
and turns sharply to the right on reaching that lofty 
foundation of the Temple of Saturn. 

At this end of the Basilica Julia we have the dark 
concrete substruction of the Temple of Castor, and its 
three fluted columns. Nearer by, to the right of the 
columns, and just at a turn in the street, we can make 
out the circular base of the small round temple of Vesta. 
Close to it on the left is the entrance to the palace of 
the Vestals, with its large court. Beyond the last we 
have a glimpse of the latest excavations about the 
Fountain of Juturna and the ascent to the Palatine. 

At our feet is a tangle of ruined shops along the 
Sacred Way. Over these, and just before we reach the 
open space of the Forum again is the concrete mass 


♦See No. 21. 
tSee No. 33. 


132 



ROME 


No. 36 


5, 6 


which remains to tell the tale of the Temple of Julius 
Caesar. A little nearer are the few existing fragments 
of the Regia.* 

Certainly this view of the Forum from the east is less 
inspiring than those we have had from the west. The 
most important things are further away, and the fore¬ 
ground is more prosaic, even down to these half-finished 
saints and angels on the roof of S. Francesca at our 
feet. But in spite of commonplace buildings on the 
left, the Capitol stands out nobly, and the dome of St. 
Peter’s adds its mighty self to the western horizon, serv¬ 
ing to recall the many things which make it the modern 
centre of Rome, in contrast with this, its ancient centre. 
For the tourist we may say that Rome is one great ellipse, 
with St. Peter’s at one focus and the Forum at the other. 
Thus far we have scarcely thought of anything which 
does not belong to either the one or the other, and here 
we seem to be looking down the long diameter which 
joins the two, as if to emphasize the fact that, though 
rival attractions, they are inseparable. 

To widen our range, however, we have only to face 
about, and there is the Colosseum! 

37 . The Colosseum from the West . 

No other point of view gives so complete an impression 
of the Colosseum as a whole, in spite of the fact that we 
are looking in the direction of its long axis, so that the 
apparent breadth is the length of the short diameter of 
the huge ellipse. As seen from a point over there to 
the left, on the Esquiline, the amphitheatre would seem 
longer, but we should lose many other advantages 


♦See No. 32. 


133 



No. 37 


ITALY 


Map 


which belong to the present point of view,—the cam¬ 
panile of S. Francesca Romana. 

We have here the contrast between the external archi¬ 
tecture on that side to the left, where the structure has 
suffered least, and, on the right, the inner walls which 
sustained the tiers of seats. In fact we must distin¬ 
guish three concentric ellipses of masonry visible from 
this point,—in the first place, the well-preserved exterior 
arcades to the left, ending with a few restored and but¬ 
tressed, to prevent further ruin, by Popes Pius VII 
and Leo XII, in the early part of the nineteenth cen¬ 
tury. To the right of these buttresses mounting up 
from story to story, we see two arches, also buttressed, 
in each of the two lower stories. These are largely re¬ 
stored, but they represent the second in a series of 
concentric shells, so to speak, which originally were 
carried all the way around the amphitheatre. The outer 
wall has disappeared entirely, thus exposing a part of 
the inner arcade. But look a little further to the right, 
and we find that the second arcade has also disappeared, 
and what we see there belongs to the third shell, as 
it were. These are massive arches borne by heavy, 
square piers, unrelieved by any ornament except for 
simple mouldings and the flat pilasters of the lower 
story. But this whole great plan, with its concentric 
rings of masonry, was not designed for show. Its pur¬ 
pose was severely practical,—merely to provide a stable 
support for the tiers of seats, and to insure ample pass¬ 
ages and stairways for the enormous crowds. From 
this standpoint, security against fire or collapse, and 
against any possible panic, the Roman emperors made 
far better provision than is made in any modern theatre, 
however lavish in its appointments. The exterior was 
simply the logical result of this arched construction, 

134 


5 ROME No. 37 

combined with the much-abused Greek “orders.” 
Whatever merit it has as architecture, is due to its close 
relation to the practical requirements. The architect is 
unknown,—a fact which shows that he was regarded as 
a simple builder, working on a greater scale, to be sure, 
than had ever been attempted before, but with no 
opportunity to embody in his work any original ideas. 
Theatres and the circus, and finally this great amphi¬ 
theatre, were regarded as works of utility, to be classed 
with bridges and aqueducts,—not with temples. Over 
these last Greek architecture exerted an influence 
which was far weaker in the case of buildings 
of the merely useful class. For the latter there 
was one scheme endlessly repeated. We have met 
it in the Tabularium* already. It consisted simply 
in relieving the solid piers which bore the arches, 
by placing a half-column, or a pilaster, against the 
faces of the piers, and carrying it up to an entabla¬ 
ture which it appears to support. Repeat this motive 
on the second story, and again on the third, if there is 
one, and we have the characteristic architecture of the 
Roman theatre, amphitheatre, or circus, in whatever 
corner of the world. For variety the half-columns were 
of different orders in the different stories. Here, as in 
other cases, the Doric comes first, then the Ionic, the 
columns on high bases; then the Corinthian, the columns 
again raised on pedestals. 

But here we have a fourth story, of later date, show¬ 
ing tall pilasters and windows and the corbels, or brack¬ 
ets, which bore the masts sustaining vast awnings 
over the heads of the spectators. The total height of 
this great wall, with its countless open arches, is one 
hundred and fifty-six feet, not so high by ten or a 

♦See Nos. S3, 36. 

135 



No. 37 


ITALY 


Map 


dozen feet as the fagade of St. Peter’s. To those who 
have come prepared to look for a work of architectural 
beauty, the Colosseum is sure to be a disappointment. 
But in the sweep of its curves, in the emphasis of its 
horizontal lines, in its effects of light and shade, it has 
real, even if unconscious, merits. And the dimensions 
are imposing enough to have impressed every 
generation from Vespasian’s time to the present. 
It is the type of the Roman civilization,—practical and 
orderly, not artistic or imaginative in itself, but able to 
stir the imagination of all who came after, by the gener¬ 
ous scale of everything, by the boldness and tenacity of 
purpose with which obstacles were met and conquered. 

This particular spot was once a marsh, and in the time 
of Nero was occupied by a lake in the enormous gardens 
of his Golden House. It was no small feat then for 
Vespasian’s nameless architect to rear this ponderous 
mass upon ground which had first to be made secure. 
The whole of the exterior was built of travertine, the 
hard white limestone of which St. Peter’s also is con¬ 
structed. But with time it has taken on a rich brown 
coloring in various shades. The lowest tier of arches 
constituted the entrances and exits, and each arch bears 
upon its keystone a large Roman numeral. In the 
upper arches statues were placed. 

As for the date of its construction, we have little in¬ 
formation beyond the fact that it was begun by the 
Emperor Vespasian, who died in the year of the eruption 
of Vesuvius, and was dedicated—perhaps still incom¬ 
plete—in the next year, SO A. D. The topmost story 
was possibly of wood at first, but what we see there 
dates from the third century and the reign of Alexander 
Severus. There had been a smaller amphitheatre in the 
Campus Martius as early as the time of Augustus, but 

136 


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No. 37 


that emperor planned to build a larger one in the 
centre of the city. His purpose was not carried out 
until the time of Vespasian, and hence the amphi¬ 
theatre bore the Flavian name. Its popular name, the 
Colosseum, is mediaeval, and probably from its colossal size, 
—not from the colossus of Nero which stood near by, on 
our left, where we see a large square pedestal of concrete. 

For the distant view, we have the Lateran Palace, 
the old home of the popes, with its Egyptian obelisk, 
and to the right, with many pinnacles and statues, the 
church of the Lateran. The venerable-looking building 
between us and the Lateran is a church, in spite of ap¬ 
pearances, and a very quaint and interesting one,—the 
Quattro Coronati, or the Four Martyrs. 

In the furthest distance is the blue outline of the 
Alban Mountains. To the right of the Colosseum we 
have a glimpse of the Cselian Hill. 

Below us, in the foreground, is a great apse with 
paneled vaulting, massively constructed in brick-faced 
concrete. It stands back to back with another similar 
apse, and both are remains of Hadrian’s great double 
temple dedicated to Venus, the mythical ancestress of 
the Julian line, and to the goddess Rome (Roma Sterna). 
It stood upon an immense platform, of which we see a 
part below and to the left. But the beautiful colon¬ 
nades which enclosed the whole area of the temple, 
have left but a few fragments of broken columns. In its 
glory that temple was one of the chief ornaments of the 
city, and its cult of the deified Rome had no small part 
in giving currency to the familiar title, the Eternal City. 

A MORNING AT THE COLOSSEUM AND THE 
PALATINE 

We enter the Colosseum at the west end, passing 
through the lofty archway into the arena, and then along 
137 


No. 38 


ITALY 


Map 


the north side to the further end of the amphitheatre. 
Diving into dark passage-ways, and climbing stairs, we 
emerge at a higher level, among the seats, or where 
were once the seats from which the Roman populace 
looked down upon gladiator and wild beast and Chris¬ 
tian in conflict in the arena. 

38. Interior of the Colosseum. 

The first impression is of the vastness of the space 
enclosed within those great encircling walls. It is not 
like the vastness of St. Peter’s, but something still more 
superhuman in its scale, and seeming to claim for its 
roof no small part of the blue sky itself. On the right 
the lofty wall of heavy blocks of travertine rises to a 
height of more than a hundred and fifty feet. At its 
end we recognize the sloping buttresses which we saw 
yesterday from the tower of S. Francesca Romana. 
The top of the tower itself shows over the wall to the 
left. The upper wall on the right corresponds with the 
fourth story of the exterior, which, as we saw, was not a 
part of the original amphitheatre of the Flavian em¬ 
perors, but an addition from the early part of the third 
century.* Many blocks from older buildings—even 
drums of columns—were employed in the construction 
of that upper wall, but all these were covered by the 
brick-faced concrete which formed the internal finish of 
the wall. There are larger windows near the top, and 
below these, smaller windows, originally lighting the 
passages beneath the upper seats. For in imagination 
we must restore all the upper tiers of seats which have 
disappeared. This is easier to do for the lower part of 
the amphitheatre. The seats are everywhere missing, 


•See No. 37. 


138 



5 


ROME 


No. 38 


but we can easily see that those arches, and sloping 
vaults in concrete, now so ruinous, once sustained tier 
upon tier of seats, divided by the broad horizontal 
aisles, which are so plainly marked, and which 
served to emphasize social distinctions among the 
spectators. 

At some points we can see the staircases ascending 
beneath the arches to the upper levels of the house. 
The disappearance of the seats has left no trace of the 
cunei , or wedge-shaped divisions, marked by ascending 
aisles between the seats. 

In general the arrangements for the seating of so 
vast a throng, for access to the seats, or for egress, 
w r ere very similar to those which we have already 
studied in the amphitheatre of Pompeii.* Here, of 
course, everything is on a vastly larger scale, suited to 
the difference between a provincial town of Campania 
and the capital of the world. 

According to a fourth century authority the Colosseum 
could contain eighty-seven thousand spectators, and 
this traditional number has been repeated from age to 
age. Recent investigations, however, tend to reduce 
this figure by more than one-half, and if we say that 
the amphitheatre had forty thousand seats we shall 
probably be not far from the truth. Even so it is a 
large number, especially by comparison with modern 
times, when no such crowds have to be provided for at 
public games, except at football contests. And if we 
compare our wooden grand-stands, in their liability to 
fire and accident, with the solid construction of the 
Colosseum, we shall have more reason than ever to 
admire the Roman habit of building all things for all 
time. 


*See No. 15. 


139 



No. 38 


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Map 


The lowest seats were for dignitaries of every kind, 
and for them was provided a 'podium, a low platform, 
raised about twelve feet above the arena, and running 
all the way around the entire circuit of the ellipse, ex¬ 
cept for interruptions at certain points. Upon the 
podium were placed marble thrones, instead of the 
marble steps which served as seats in the rest of the 
house. 

To protect these distinguished spectators from possi¬ 
ble attack by the wild beasts, a low wall was carried 
around the inner margin of the arena, separated from 
the podium by a narrow passage. Upon the wall was 
a screen with wire netting in gilt bronze. This may 
suggest the luxurious appointments of the Colosseum,— 
the wealth of marbles which hid all this nakedness of 
concrete and brick. There were long rows of columns, 
too,—a continuous colonnade above the highest seats, 
sweeping entirely around the amphitheatre; and prob¬ 
ably a similar colonnade sheltered the podium down below. 

As for the arena itself, excavations have brought to 
light a complicated system of walls beneath, but the 
effect of the immense sanded area has been lost. A 
little more than one-half has been excavated. It is 
impossible to make out the purpose of all these 
walls, straight and curved, under this eastern end of 
the arena. But we know that the amphitheatre was 
not used for gladiatorial shows and the combats of 
wild beasts alone. There were spectacular performances 
of all kinds, requiring elaborate scenery and stage- 
effects. And for these it was necessary to have ample 
room beneath the level of the arena. It is, in fact, 
twenty feet down to the bottom of those pits. The 
smooth layer of sand which commonly covered the 
whole area could be swept aside at any point, plank- 

140 


5 


ROME 


No. 38 


ing or slabs of stone removed; and then the scenery 
and machines could be raised from below. At times 
the whole space was flooded, and sham naval battles 
delighted the populace. 

Following the curve of that wooden railing on the right 
we have glimpses of the dens of the wild beasts,—those 
dark arches opening out of the pit below. Originally 
they were provided with iron bars. Incredible numbers 
of lions and other animals were brought out for the 
short-lived amusement of the Roman mob. The perse¬ 
cution of the Christians added new zest to the jaded 
taste for bloody spectacles. How many martyrs stained 
the sand of the arena with their blood it is impossible 
to say. But in the popular excitement which attended 
the spasmodic efforts of the emperors to suppress the 
new religion which threatened to destroy the old, many 
Christians were compelled to fight as gladiators, were 
exposed to the lions, or suffered still greater cruelties. 
In the memories of the martyr age of the church the 
Colosseum has a prominent place, and yet it was not 
until the eighteenth century that it began to be treated 
as a sacred spot. Previously it had been the chief quarry 
for the builders of Roman palaces in the fifteenth and 
sixteenth centuries. Several entire palaces were built 
out of travertine taken from the Colosseum with the 
permission of the popes. Finally the hand of the de¬ 
stroyer was staj^ed, after two-thirds of the masonry had 
disappeared, and the scene of so many martyrdoms at 
last seemed to deserve the veneration of pilgrims. But 
the cross and the altars erected in the arena a century 
and a half ago have been removed again. Pilgrims 
come, however, from every corner of Christendom, to 
this spot, where the memories of pagan Rome—the 
hard-hearted and bloodthirsty Rome—linger about 

141 


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ITALY 


Map 


these countless arches. To the mediseval pilgrim the 
Colosseum was something more than a place in which 
to dream of Roman mobs and the courage of martyrs, 
—it was the symbol of the power of Rome, and insepar¬ 
able from the very existence of the city and the world. 

So long as Colosseum stands, stands Rome; . 

What day the Colosseum falls, falls Rome; 

With Rome and Colosseum, falls—the world. 

So prophesied the Anglo-Saxon pilgrims as long ago 
as the seventh century. And the age which made it 
already to their eyes a venerable relic of the past, has 
now been trebled; but the end of the world, to which 
they looked forward as something near at hand, is not 
yet. Still Rome stands, with a new lease of life and 
power; and still the Colosseum,—with its own unac¬ 
countable place in the affection and memory of the 
nations. 

Leaving the desolate interior of the amphitheatre of 
Vespasian, we climb to the highest part of the encircling 
wall, for the view from that lofty outlook. 

39 . The Palatine from the Colosseum. 

On our left the Palatine Hill rises sheer above those 
ruins on the left of the Sacred Way, which leads up to 
the eminence where the Arch of Titus stands out white 
against the dark ruins behind it. The huge platform 
on the right was raised by Hadrian to sustain his double 
temple of Venus and Rome. It extends all along the 
Sacra Via to the Arch of Titus. The fragments of 
columns along that edge of the platform are the scanty 
remnants of a beautiful colonnade, which surrounded 
the platform, like a cloister, enclosing the sacred pre- 
142 


5 


ROME 


No. 39 


cincts within which stood the temple itself, with its 
own unbroken lines of columns on a much more im¬ 
posing scale. Beneath the platform we look through 
dark archways into chambers formed in the concrete, 
of which the whole substruction was built. These 
chambers may have served for the storage of scenery 
and machines required for the spectacular shows of the 
Colosseum. At that angle below us we can make out 
a trace of a staircase, descending to the level of the 
street. But marble steps and facings have been re¬ 
moved for use in other buildings, or even to be burned 
for lime. The mediaeval Rome took this easy method 
of supplying itself with lime, and in that way ruthlessly 
destroyed priceless sculptures and inscriptions of the 
greatest historical value, along with countless slabs and 
blocks of mere marble. Fortunately the concrete 
masses could not be turned to account, and hence these 
remain well-nigh indestructible. 

It was of this same enduring material that Nero built 
what now remains at this angle of the Palatine. It is 
not a mere retaining-wall that we see, but a part of the 
famous Golden House. We have seen that the entire 
Colosseum stands within the limits of a lake in Nero’s 
gardens.* The palace itself extended from the Palatine 
straight across this valley (perhaps arching over the 
Sacred Way) to the Esquiline, and included a large 
tract upon the latter hill. Its size and. extravagance 
roused the animosity of the Romans perhaps more than 
any other of Nero’s eccentricities, and Vespasian was 
praised for restoring so large a portion of the site to 
public uses. 

Against the face of the Palatine Nero had built several 
stories of small vaulted chambers. The ruins at the foot 

♦See No. 37. 

143 



No. 39 


ITALY 


Map 


of the hill are mostly of a later date, among them baths 
of the third century. At one point we see two standing 
columns of marble, near one end of a long open space. 
This is supposed to have been a Christian church—a 
small basilica—erected, perhaps in the fifth century, in 
the midst of the baths. Behind the columns is an apse, and 
the church, if church it was, had transepts, but no aisles. 

Close by the Arch of Titus the road ascends to the 
Palatine. This was in ancient times the main approach 
to the hill. Above, among stone pines, is the casino, a 
relic of the days when that part of the Palatine was 
a private garden, and belonged to the Farnese family. 
It is now used for offices by the management of the ex¬ 
cavations. But the gardens remain in part, extending 
over the Arch of Titus, as we see them, almost to that 
angle of the hill which looks down upon the Forum,— 
the favorite spot with all visitors to the Palatine.* The 
great arches sustained the Palace of Caligula, while the 
ancient street passed beneath in the gloom of that largest 
arch, directly over the Arch of Titus. 

On the left again, where the Palatine was levelled by 
the emperors, is a church, San Sebastiano. Near this 
site stood the Temple of Apollo, according to the most 
recent authorities. Some day excavation will resolve 
all present uncertainties as to the location of that famous 
temple, built by Augustus in memory of the battle of 
Actium (31 B. C.) and dedicated three years later. It 
contained the precious Sibylline Books, in a case en¬ 
closed in the pedestal of the statue of Apollo, and was 
not less celebrated for its rich collections of Greek art, 
and the Palatine Library, connected with the temple. 
To the right of the church appears a tall, chimney-like 
piece of masonry, marking one angle of the Palace 


•See No. 41. 


144 



5 


ROME 


No. 39 


of Domitian, the so-called Palace of the Caesars, which 
extends from that point all the way to the further side 
of the hill, overlooking the Circus Maximus. At the 
particular corner of the palace where that bit of wall 
remains there stood the basilica used by the emperor 
in hearing cases which came before him. It was, in 
other words, the supreme court of the empire. 

Between the Palace of Domitian—which served almost 
exclusively the more public needs of the emperors—and 
the Palace of Caligula, at the Forum angle of the Pala¬ 
tine, lies the Palace of Tiberius. From this point of 
view, however, nothing is visible but the trees which 
cover the ruins. The Palace of Augustus lies to the left 
of S. Sebastiano, where a tower hides itself among trees. 
That is a part of the Villa Mills, recently a convent, but 
soon to be pulled down to permit of excavations. 

Thus the whole hill seems to be covered with a suc¬ 
cession of imperial palaces,—and there are still others 
that we have not named. All were connected by a 
vaulted corridor, called the cryptoporticus, and the 
whole group covered more ground than St. Peter's and 
the Vatican together. 

Time had been when the whole city of Rome was 
upon this one hill, and some remains of those primitive 
times are still to be found. But the fame of the 
Palatine belongs to the imperial times, when the private 
houses of many distinguished Romans—among them 
Cicero's—had been destroyed to satisfy the demand of 
one emperor after another for a greater luxury than had 
been enjoyed by his predecessors. Thus for the Roman 
world at its widest extent—from the Firth of Forth to 
the Euphrates—the Palatine was what the Forum had 
been for a smaller domain,—the central seat of power 
and authority. 


145 


No. 40 ITALY Ma P 

From the summit of the Colosseum and our view over 
the Palatine we return to the level of the street, and 
proceed to the neighboring triumphal arch; and in order 
to study the sculptures we pass through to its sunlit 
southern side. 

40. The Arch of Constantine. 

This arch is in many ways suggestive of that of 
Septimius Severus* at the upper end of the Forum, 
but while the general features of its architecture are 
similar, it is far superior to that arch, both in historic 
significance, and in the value of its sculptures. 

Historically, the Arch of Constantine commemorates 
the famous victory won in 312 A. D. by that emperor 
over his rival, Maxentius, along the Flaminian Way, to 
the north of Rome, and culminating in the rout of 
Maxentius at the Milvian Bridge. The defeat and death 
of Maxentius, who was a defender of paganism, meant 
the triumph of Christianity, and the conclusion of ten 
years of persecution, begun under Diocletian. Not that 
Constantine at once renounced the old religion for the 
new. For it was only upon his deathbed that he allowed 
himself to be baptized, twenty-five years later. But by 
slow steps, cautiously taken, he advanced Christianity 
from a tolerated cult to the accepted religion of the 
state. The triumphal procession, then, which marched 
through the city, perhaps on the day after the victory of 
the Milvian Bridge, and passed down this street, and then 
along the Sacred Way, to the Capitol, differed from all 
previous Roman triumphs in celebrating the advent of 
religious peace, after two centuries and a half in which 
the old religion had endeavored to suppress the new, 

•See No. 36. 

146 



5 


ROME 


No. 40 


not continuously, but with brief periods of merciless 
persecution. 

And so the arch takes on a higher historical meaning 
than belongs to that of Titus, and all the rest which 
commemorate the conquest of some one land. No 
foreign foe had been subdued, but a hated tyrant had 
been put down, and the victory was to result in changes 
which affected the civilized world for ages to come. 
Its consequences, however, could not at once be appre¬ 
ciated, and we must not expect to find the Arch of 
Constantine a memorial—in sculpture and inscription— 
of the triumph of Christianity. 

On the contrary, the sculptures have no suggestion of 
the momentous change. In fact, most of them were 
taken from an arch of Trajan in his Forum,* and repre¬ 
sent a far higher degree of artistic excellence than would 
have been possible in the time of Constantine. For the 
rapid decline of ancient art began before the middle of 
the second century after Christ, and went on so rapidly 
that by the beginning of the fourth century nothing 
was produced which did not give painful evidence of 
the corruption of taste, and the feeble powers of the 
artists of that age. 

From Trajan’s arch were taken those sculptured 
medallions, of which there are two over each of the 
side arches. They represent hunting and sacrificial 
scenes. In the first to the left, Trajan with his attend¬ 
ants is coming forth from a gateway, bound for the 
chase. In the second he offers sacrifice. On the other 
side, the third medallion—one of the most spirited— 
shows the emperor mounted, and in the act of pursuing a 
bear. The fourth is also a scene of sacrifice, to the goddess 
Diana. In some of these reliefs the emperor—Trajan, not 


•See No. 52. 


147 



No. 40 


ITALY 


Maps 


Constantine—has a halo about his head, showing that 
the nimbus of the Christian saints was borrowed from 
pagan art. 

Above the columns stand statues of captives,— 
melancholy, but still noble figures, representing Dacians 
subdued by Trajan in his expeditions beyond the Dan¬ 
ube. The larger reliefs of the attica were also from 
Trajan's arch. In those upon the left the emperor re¬ 
ceives the submission of barbarians. On the other side 
we see him standing upon a platform and making a 
speech to his soldiers with their standards. In the last 
scene to the right the emperor (in the centre) pours a 
libation upon a tripod, while sacrificial victims are repre¬ 
sented in the foreground, and more standards above. 

The rest of the sculptures which we see are of the time 
of Constantine,—the rude Victories on either side of the 
large arch, the river-gods by the smaller arches, the 
bands of sculpture beneath the medallions, the figures 
on the pedestals of the columns. That band on the 
right is a crude attempt to portray the death of Maxen- 
tius and his men in the Tiber at the Milvian Bridge. 
Above in the central portion of the attica is the inscrip¬ 
tion, dedicating the arch to Constantine. That it was 
built in the year 315 is indicated by other inscriptions 
above the medallions. 

The columns are of Numidian marble, the beautiful 
yellow and pink marble than which none was more 
highly prized. They also came from the arch, or at 
least, the Forum, of Trajan. Through the arch to the 
left we see the ruins of an ancient fountain, the Meta 
Sudans. Its basin is marked by the circular railing. 

On the right we look into the dark arches of the 
Colosseum, and up to its lofty wall above. The carts, 
moving slowly in the direction of the Colosseum, are 
148 


ROME 


No. 40 


5. 6 


wine-carts of Albano. The peasant girls are from the 
Campagna too, and in the old-time costume. One of 
them, at least, is an artist’s model. We have seen her 
like in countless paintings of modern Rome. 

If we have little time to explore the whole series of 
the imperial palaces, together with the old temples on 
the Palatine and the other remains of primitive Rome, 
we have at least promised ourselves the view of the 
Forum from the House of Caligula. Passing along the 
edge of the Forum again, and then turning to the left, 
in the direction of the Tiber, we reach the entrance to 
the Palatine,—an open-air museum, after the fashion of 
Pompeii. We soon find ourselves following the ancient 
street over which Caligula carried his palace on high 
arches, that he might possess himself of the extreme 
north angle of the hill. Ascending, we come to the 
Farnese gardens, and the spot which commands the best 
view of the Forum and the Capitol. 

41, The Forum from the Palatine. 

We have at our feet the Three Columns, the pictur¬ 
esque ruin, that is, of the Temple of Castor and Pollux. 
Although capitals and mouldings have suffered, still 
these columns with their fragment of entablature are the 
most beautiful relics of the Forum as it was in the days 
of Augustus. The temple was built in 6 A. D., out of the 
spoils of Germany, by the future emperor, Tiberius, and 
his brother, Drusus. But this site had been occupied 
by an older temple as far back as 482 B. C., in memory 
of the battle at Lake Regillus (496) and the appearance 
of Castor and Pollux at the Fountain of Juturna.* 


•See No. 32. 


149 



No. 41 


ITALY 


Map 


Once more we look down upon the marble floor of 
the Basilica Julia. The street at this end of the basilica, 
and just beyond the Castor-temple, is the Vicus Tuscus, 
once a busy street of shops, leading in the direction of 
the Circus. The parallel street, at the other end of the 
basilica, is the Vicus Iugarius. By the side of the Sacred 
Way a single pier of white travertine is standing; but 
this is a restoration, intended to suggest the architecture 
of the principal front of the basilica. Beneath this end 
of the basilica, and close to the Vicus Tuscus , runs the 
Cloaca Maxima, the great sewer of early Rome, the work, 
according to tradition, of the Tarquins. A few years 
ago the cloaca could be seen through an opening in the 
floor of the basilica. But this has now been closed. 

On the other side of the Sacred Way we readily recog¬ 
nize the monuments which we have now seen from so 
many points of view,—first a line of square bases for 
columns, of which one stands upon its pedestal, to the 
right of the Three Columns, while another is lost behind 
them. Then the Column of Phocas in the centre, and 
the Arch of Septimius Severus. At the foot of the 
latter are the new excavations in the direction of the 
senate-house. Directly over the Three Columns we see 
a part of the long platform of the Rostra. It extends 
to the left even beyond the Column of Phocas, but the 
best preserved end is near the triumphal arch. In that 
wall of volcanic stone (tufa) we can make out the vertical 
grooves into which the bronze ships’ beaks ( rostra ) were 
fitted. 

Behind the Rostra is another older platform, 
usually known as the Grcecostasis. We can see a few 
of the slabs of colored marble with which its front was 
veneered,—one of them just to the left of the pedestal 
of Phocas’s column. When Caesar removed the Rostra 

150 


6 


ROME 


No. 41 


to the present position the older platform was completely 
concealed from view, and its purpose remains un¬ 
known. At one end of the curved platform, close to the 
Arch of Severus, was the Umbilicus Romce, a cylindrical 
monument, marking the ideal centre of the city. It is 
probably not earlier than the third century. Near the 
other end of the same platform seems to have been the 
Golden Milestone. This was a column of gilt-bronze, 
first set up by Augustus in 29 B. C., inscribed with the 
names of the principal cities along the line of each high¬ 
way radiating from the city, with their distances, meas¬ 
ured from the city-gates. Nothing of it remains now, 
except perhaps a few marble fragments of the pedes¬ 
tal. These we can see even from here,—white bits against 
the darker masses, almost directly over that one stand¬ 
ing pier of the Basilica Julia. It is known that the 
Golden Milestone was close to the Temple of Saturn; 
and these fragments are certainly almost within the 
shadow of those granite columns on their lofty founda¬ 
tion. 

Over the last we have again the Portico of the Twelve 
Gods. To the right of the Saturn temple the three 
fluted columns of the Temple of Vespasian bear one cor¬ 
ner of the entablature. Further to the right we see once 
more the sad wreck of the Temple of Concord, one of 
the most beautiful of Roman temples, as it was rebuilt 
with the spoils of Germany, in the time of Augustus. 
A few blocks of marble lie scattered about upon that 
broad concrete platform, like white rocks upon a bare 
hillside. Close to the Temple of Concord are the Scales 
Gemonicc again—that is, their modern representatives— 
and, over the Arch of Severus, the Mamertine Prison, 
hidden away beneath a church of St. Joseph. Then the 
narrow street which leads around the Capitol to the 

151 


No. 41 


ITALY 


Map 


Corso; and, near the edge of the excavations, the steps 
and facade of S. Martina. Upon the Capitol is the now 
familiar group,—the campanile rising out of the Palace 
of the Senator, which in its turn rests upon the ancient 
Tabularium; and then to the right the church and con¬ 
vent of Aracoeli. To the left of the Palace of the Sena¬ 
tor we have a glimpse of the Conservatori Museum, 
—another of the great collections of Rome. 

Now that we have given so much study to the Roman 
Forum and the surrounding monuments, endeavoring by 
repeated views from commanding heights to separate 
the important things from the confused and confusing 
mass of ruins, it is worth while to sit down upon this 
corner of the Palatine, and try to fix the impressions 
that we are to carry away with us. Of the greatest 
names in Roman history there are few tangible memo¬ 
rials. If we came hoping to see the identical Rostra 
from which the tongue of Cicero charmed the Roman 
people, or where his head and hand were exposed after 
his life had fallen a prey to the hatred of Antony, we 
have been disappointed; so meagre are the ruins. And 
as for his greater triumphs before the senate, met in 
the Temple of Concord or the Curia , the former is a 
mere foundation; the latter, rebuilt in a much later age 
on a different site, exists in disguise as the Church of 
S. Adriano.* The whole republican period seems to be 
represented, so far as we can actually see, by a single 
building, and that not one of historic fame—the Tabu¬ 
larium of Catulus. Everywhere it is the Empire and 
the emperors, from the founder of their power, Julius, 
the dictator, and his successor, Augustus, the first em¬ 
peror, down to Phocas, tyrant at Constantinople long 
after the line of the western emperors had come to an 


* See No. 36. 


152 



ROME 


No. 41 


end. It is a tale of perpetual building, burning, and 
rebuilding, till it is no wonder that early Rome should 
be represented by a few things only, deep down under¬ 
ground—revealed in the most recent excavations—and 
by the subterranean channel of the Cloaca Maxima. 
And the very small open space of the central Forum 
was several times swept clean of its encumbrances, 
only to become again obstructed in later times by the 
great monuments of little men. Whole waves of 
change have altered nearly every landmark. History 
was making, and with such rapidity, that the historic 
was of little account. The burden of spending all the 
wealth that came in from a conquered world could not 
be discharged without the wildest extravagance. Up¬ 
start buildings must crowd in upon venerable sanctua¬ 
ries; an overgrown triumphal arch of an emperor born 
in Africa must be planted before a perfect temple of 
the Augustan age. 

But in spite of this sense of an incredible crowding 
and pushing, and mad display of architectural finery, 
we shall still carry away the thought that we have seen 
the spot which, more than any other, was the cradle of 
European political history. For if the spoils of Ger¬ 
many built these Three Columns, and their fallen com¬ 
panions, it was but the first unwilling tribute to the 
power which later charmed and won the same Germans, 
and even in its own fall shaped their destiny. They 
came, as Goths, with Alaric, to plunder and spoil,—just 
as the Gauls had despoiled this same spot eight hundred 
years before. They came again, as Vandals from 
Africa, on the same errand of robbery. They came with 
Theodoric, in the sixth century, to repair and restore 
these crumbling monuments for the last time; for they 
were now ready to accept Roman laws and institutions, 

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and build the slow, but enduring, structure of Germanic 
civilization upon Roman foundations. Again they came, 
as pilgrims from those northern lands, and from their 
new home, England, throughout the middle ages. And 
still they come, even from more distant lands—the most 
recent conquests of the same Saxon race—to pay their 
tribute of respect and admiration, grateful that their 
ancestors were first subdued by the strong arm of Rome, 
and then held for ages under the spell of her name, a 
shadow more potent even now, as it falls across our 
imaginations, than are most of the realities of the mod¬ 
ern world. 

AN AFTERNOON AMONG THE CHURCHES 

Of the history of Rome in the middle ages, far the 
larger part is to be read in its countless churches. And 
then there are the great churches which have been re¬ 
built in more recent times, and contain many cele¬ 
brated works by the artists of the Renaissance. Few 
visitors will be satisfied with St. Peter’s, and ready to 
ignore the other churches within or without the 
walls. 

North of the Colosseum, upon the Esquiline, just 
where the homes of distinguished Romans made the 
Carina ? the most fashionable quarter of ancient Rome, 
stands that church of St. Peter which contains the 
chains of the Apostle, and the Moses of Michael Angelo. 
The chains have been preserved here since the fifth 
century, when a Roman empress, Eudoxia, built the 
original church for their reception. Ancient columns 
of the Doric order bear the roof of the church, and give 
it a character of its own. But for most of the world 
the importance of the church does not consist in its 

154 


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No. 42 


ancient relics—chains or columns—but in the Moses of 
Michael Angelo, a single figure from the tomb of 
Julius II. 

42. Michael Angelo’s Moses, 

In a niche of this monument sits the heroic figure of 
the great law-giver. He is in physical strength a Her¬ 
cules, but those powerful arms and mighty shoulders 
are not given him for mere feats of prowess. His 
“labors” are upon a higher plane, and this superb 
physique is but the outward expression of moral gran¬ 
deur. And, unlike the Farnese Hercules,* he is not ex¬ 
hausted by what has been already done, but on the 
alert, ready at any moment to rise to meet the attack 
of an enemy, or to frown down the murmurings of his 
own discontented people. While the whole figure is in 
repose, it is the repose of assurance in his own powers 
as a leader, and of faith in the divine mission which has 
called forth those powers. One foot is firmly planted 
upon the ground, the other drawn back and raised 
upon the toes. Even the folds of the cloak, massed 
upon the right knee, have something of the heroic about 
them; and if nothing remained but the lower part of 
the statue, the expression of physical and moral force, 
ready for instant action, but held under perfect con¬ 
trol, would not be lost. The right arm holds the tables 
of the law, while the fingers play with the long waving 
beard. The left hand grasps the folds of the cloak in 
his lap,—the muscular arm ready to avert a blow, as 
though an attack upon his people would be a direct 
attack upon himself. And this attitude of preparation 
for every emergency is strengthened by the position of 
the shoulders. 


•See No. 6. 


155 



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Map 


The head is the head of a patriarch, with the long 
flowing beard. Out of the mass of hair rise two short 
horns, which tradition required the sculptor to add. 
For the Latin Bible, in the Book of Exodus (34, 35), 
in describing the altered expression of Moses's face, as 
he came down from Mt. Sinai, instead of speaking of 
his shining countenance, by some misconception of the 
original gave him these horns. Yet, if they serve no 
other purpose, they fix the precise moment in his career 
at which Michael Angelo chose to represent the law¬ 
giver. The tables of the law had been broken by Moses, 
in his wrath at the idolatry of the golden calf. He had 
returned to commune with God for forty days upon 
Sinai, and now he was descending with the renewed 
tables, ready to crush any further opposition from his 
people, who trembled before him and feared to come 
near to him, until he had veiled his altered face. 

The lips are about to open for some majestic utterance, 
—condemnation of their sins, or solemn announcement 
of the commands divinely entrusted to him upon the 
mountain; or assurances of a career of conquest,promised 
by the Most High during those forty days,—and hence 
defiance of all their enemies. The knit brow and fierce 
eye seem to have before them a whole people, murmur¬ 
ing together in the plain below. He seems to have un¬ 
seen powers behind him,—the thunders and lightnings of 
Sinai, to overawe all opposition. One might think of 
him as almost a personification of Sinai itself, in all its 
wild and unearthly grandeur. He is the mighty leader, 
who with no uncertain step conducts a people out of 
slavery, and after forty years of rude schooling in the 
desert, is to prepare them to drive out the aliens, and 
begin a national life of their own. From the slave-whip 
in Egypt to the conquering sword and the peaceful 

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No. 42 


plowshare in the Promised Land,—this was the work to 
which he bends that mighty back. And then to die 
before the task had been accomplished! 

It is, in the language of a distinguished German critic, 
the crown of modern sculpture, and no sculptor so 
admirably adapted to the task as Michael Angelo has 
ever appeared. We may see his own heroic nature un¬ 
consciously embodied in this great work. The sugges¬ 
tion of his master, Pope Julius II, whose tomb it was 
to adorn, is even stronger. For that warlike pope had 
the qualities of a leader, with a violence of passion, 
which was not unlike the wrath of Moses. Here the re¬ 
semblance ends, for the spirituality which Michael 
Angelo has expressed in this face was not to be found 
in the man whose rule was of the world worldly. 

The pope had planned to build for himself a huge 
mausoleum, to be placed in the centre of St. Peter’s, 
and adorned with many works of sculpture. But plans 
were altered, and the scale reduced, so that, as it stands 
at present, the monument gives no idea of what was 
at first intended, and shows many other hands. 
After all the pope was not buried here, but in a chapel 
of St. Peter’s. However grand the original plan may 
have been, one can scarcely doubt that the Moses would 
still have absorbed all interest, as it now does. For 
forty years after the death of Julius (1513), the statue 
was still kept by Michael Angelo in his studio, near the 
Capitol. How far it was retouched by him in those 
long years we are not told, but it certainly represents 
the sculptor at his very best, and few statues in the 
world impress themselves so indelibly upon the memory. 

From S. Pietro in Vincoli we go down to the valley of 
the Colosseum and follow a narrow street which seems 

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to end in the distance near an Egyptian obelisk. That 
is in the piazza of the Lateran, enclosed on two sides by 
the Palace, the Basilica, and Baptistery. We enter the 
basilica at the furthest angle of the square, and through 
the transept reach the body of the church. 

43. Interior of St. John Jateran. 

Standing in the nave, we are looking across the tran¬ 
sept, into the tribune of this venerable basilica. Di¬ 
rectly before us rises the tabernacle over the papal altar. 
For we shall find that in many respects St. Peter’s and 
the Lateran have similar arrangements. There is the 
confessio, in front of the altar and enclosed by a railing 
of marble and bronze, with ever-burning lamps, but in 
a less imposing array than at St. Peter’s.* Instead of 
the hideous twisted columns of Bernini’s canopyf we 
have here an interesting, if less gigantic, work of the 
middle ages (1367). Ancient columns, with unmatched 
shafts and assorted capitals, support a towering struc¬ 
ture in the Gothic style,—always more or less of a rarity 
in Rome. There are carved figures under small cano¬ 
pies at the angles. Between these are frescoes of the 
fourteenth century, but much restored. The upper part 
of the tabernacle, with its grill-work, contains the relics, 
among them, it is said, the skulls of Sts. PeteT and Paul. 
Above, it is one mass of gilding, up to the cross, in the 
shadow of the paneled ceiling. The papal altar below 
encloses a wooden table, a relic, it is claimed, of apos¬ 
tolic days, and used by St. Peter in celebrating the 
Lord’s Supper in the house of Pudens. At this altar, 
in former times, some of the most important functions 
in connection with the coronation of a new pope used 


♦See No. 27. 
fSeeNo. 26. 


158 



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No. 43 


to take place. For while at St. Peter’s the pope is the 
sovereign pontiff, at the Lateran he is the bishop of 
Rome. It is with the Lateran that one must associate 
the larger part of the history of the mediaeval papacy. 
In the old palace which stood close to the church, the 
popes resided from the time of Constantine to the years 
of their exile at Avignon, in the fourteenth century,— 
almost a thousand years. Since the return from Avig¬ 
non the palace has been rebuilt, but never occupied by 
the popes themselves, and the Lateran basilica has lost 
its old importance, except in historical associations, 
tenaciously retained by the Church, the most conserva¬ 
tive of human institutions. Pope Leo XIII had a 
special affection for the old basilica, and enlarged 
the tribune, by moving the great apse back by a distance 
equal to its width, or more. He redecorated the 
entire tribune with rich marbles and mosaics. The 
choir gallery, in the arch to the right of the taber¬ 
nacle, is his work; also its balcony with a gilded 
rail. 

Instead of the theatrical background of the tribune 
of St. Peter’s, we have here an attempt to restore the 
old simplicity of the middle ages,—speaking,that is, of 
the form alone. The papal throne is in the ancient po¬ 
sition at the centre of the apse, with its own canopy 
borne by columns,—in front of it another altar. Above 
the marble dado are mosaics, with a long inscription; 
then mosaic figures of prophets between the simple 
pointed windows. Above these the whole surface of 
the apse is covered with mosaics. It was the usual 
method of decorating this part of themedheval churches 
in Rome, and these old mosaics, rather scornfully 
treated by the hasty traveler, are worthy of close study 
by artists, and all who interest themselves in the history 

159 


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Map 


of painting. In the closing age of antiquity wall- 
mosaics took the place of frescoes such as we saw at 
Pompeii, and the art flourished especially at Constanti¬ 
nople. But it was revived at Rome in the middle ages. 
Of those that we see in this apse the greater part date 
from the end of the thirteenth century. Near the top 
of the apse is a head of Christ, surrounded by seraphim. 
Below him a dove descends towards a cross. From 
the dove’s bill streams of water flow down over the 
cross, and divide into the rivers of Paradise. Small 
figures of harts, or sheep, drinking from these waters, 
represent the disciples in an allegory. On the left 
stands the Virgin, and kneeling by her the pope of that 
day, Nicholas IV; then Sts. Peter and Paul, with in¬ 
scribed scrolls in their hands. They are not easy to 
make out as the sunlight streaks across the apse, but 
they show, at least, far more religious feeling than the 
gay frescoes of the transept. 

Four great columns support the arches dividing the 
transepts from nave and tribune. Those nearest to us 
are ancient. The nave had whole rows of columns, 
but in tasteless restorations of the seventeenth 
century they were concealed in heavy piers, that the 
old basilica might conform to the unhappy fashion set by 
St. Peter’s. Hence these niches with green marble col¬ 
umns and heroic statues of the Apostles. Except for the 
chapels, there are few tombs in the Lateran. One monu¬ 
ment we see in the transept, to the right of the tall column; 
it is that of one of the greatest of the mediaeval popes, 
Innocent III, with whom the papacy reached the zenith 
of its power; but the work is wholly modern, erected 
a few years ago. Even so, that one great name 
out of the thirteenth century may help us, in the midst 
of these architectural distractions, to recall the Lateran 

160 




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No. 44 


of the middle ages and the great councils held within its 
walls. Unlike St. Peter’s or St. Paul’s, the Lateran has 
been destroyed again and again,—in the ninth century 
by earthquake, and by fire twice within the thirteenth 
century. The mosaics of the apse have thus survived 
two fires and one removal, not to mention their happy 
escape from the hands of the modernizer who played 
such havoc with the nave in the seventeenth century. 
But in spite of everything the Lateran cannot fail to 
recall the centuries in which it was the ecclesiastical 
centre of Christendom. 

It is a long drive from the Lateran, close to the Walls 
of Aurelian on the south, to the church of the Capuchins, 
at the foot of the Pincian Hill, near the Barberini Palace. 
This churco was, in fact, founded (1624) by a member 
of that family, Cardinal Barberini, a brother of Pope 
Urban VIII. The convent was assigned to the Capu¬ 
chin order, and was once a large and flourishing monas¬ 
tery. Visitors come to see the paintings in the church, 
—among them Guido Reni’s Michael; but also to sec 
the grim catacombs beneath the church. 

44. Cemetery of the Cappuccini. 

There are four of these chambers in the crypt of the 
church, but they are amply lighted by windows, for no 
attempt is made to hide their ghastly contents. The 
cemetery proper, or “ sleeping-place,” consists simply 
of these odd graves crowded together, and distinguished, 
not by mounds, but by low ridges, leaving a flat depres¬ 
sion in the centre. Instead of headstones, there are 
wooden crosses, each bearing a small label and a single 
candle. The earth was brought from the Holy Land. 

161 


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Map 


From the large number of monks in the convent and the 
smallness of this burial-place—there are only four of 
these vaulted chambers—it became necessary to limit 
the privilege of sleeping in the sacred earth to a certain 
time. If all the graves were occupied, the one way to 
provide for a new tenant was by evicting an old one. 
From the grave that had been longest occupied the 
bones would be dug up, and then, after a process of 
sorting, would find storage-room—it is the best that 
one can say of it—with other bones of the same kind, 
piled together in the most methodical fashion. But as 
though this separation and piling away of the bones 
were not enough, the monks in some unlucky moment 
hit upon the idea of making them ornamental. So the 
walls of the chambers have taken on the appearance, 
one might say, of a library of human documents, carefully 
filed—but without the name of the owner—for future 
reference. And as in many another library, there are 
niches filled with figures,—entire skeletons standing, 
clad in their brown robes and cowls. These were 
eminent members of the order, and honored with the 
rare distinction of a label and an identity. In the end 
wall of the chamber an arch has been ingeniously con¬ 
structed in bones. Beneath this an altar, not made of 
bones, but adorned with rows of grinning skulls. Over 
the altar are the arms of the order, and then marvelous 
patterns worked out in small bones against the white 
wall. But the masterpiece of the monkish decorator 
has been the vaulted ceiling, elaborately adorned with 
lines and bands, curved or straight, and all of the same 
ghastly material. From the middle of the ceiling hangs 
a lamp of bones, its three chains furnished by the thighs 
of departed monks. Looking around this one room we 
seem to count an indefinite number of skulls. There 

162 


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No. 44 


are, perhaps, a thousand in this one chamber, and as 
many more in each of the others. It is an army of 
monks, who have lived in this convent during nearly 
three centuries, each to enjoy in his turn for a few 
years the privilege of sleeping under the soil of Palestine, 
and then to be taken up and stowed away, like useless 
lumber in a dusty garret. 

Here too it is dusty enough, for the sacred earth 
looks as dry as though it had come from the desert, 
and a fine brown dust has settled over everything, add¬ 
ing to the dismal impression. To the visitor, certainly, 
it is not edifying; for we have not come here, as the good 
monks did, to meditate upon mortality, or prepare our¬ 
selves to fill one of these narrow graves, and then to be 
put on exhibition. Certainly the catacombs out in 
the Campagna are far more cheerful places, in spite of 
the darkness of their subterranean passages, many miles 
in length. For in early Christian times the dead were 
laid away there, each in his own niche, cut in the clean 
tufa-rock; and the opening was closed with tiles, or a 
slab of marble, inscribed with words and symbols of 
hope,—of absolute assurance. There was none of that 
morbid love of the ghastly which the Cappuccini have 
striven to cultivate among the brown-robed members of 
their order. The poetry of St. Francis of Assisi, who 
spoke of “our sister, the death of the body,’’ has been 
brought down by these followers of his to the depths of 
a valley given over to dry bones; and the bones are 
very dry! 


A DAY OF SIGHT-SEEING 

Since our day at St. Peter’s we have given our time 
very largely to the remains of ancient Rome, and have 

163 


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Maps 


had ample opportunity to observe Roman methods of 
construction in buildings large and small. We have 
seen the colossal vaults of the Basilica of Constantine,* 
which in many ways suggested St. Peter’s. But as yet, 
no Roman dome of any size has been met with. We 
cannot do better than to go directly from the Pantheon 
to St. Peter’s, from the ancient model to its modern 
counterpart, so similar, and yet so different, especially 
from without. 

It is difficult to see the dome of the Pantheon, since 
the distance, so necessary even for the proper effect 
of Michael Angelo’s dome, is still more imperative for 
Hadrian’s, and much more difficult to obtain in the 
crowded Campus Martius. We must climb to an upper 
window, or a roof; otherwise, the low curve of the dome 
is completely lost behind the heavy cylinder which 
supports it. 

45. The Pantheon . 

From our elevated position we have a view, not of the 
portico alone, or the massive walls, as we saw them from 
below in the piazza, but of the whole mighty structure. 

The imposing portico has extraordinary breadth and 
depth. Its huge granite columns are capped by Corinth¬ 
ian capitals in marble, all damaged, except as they have 
been restored, in necessary repairs at the left angle of 
the porch. The frieze bears a monumental inscription. 
Above is a high-pitched pediment, once filled with 
sculpture. Behind the portico, and quite incompatible 
with it, rises the vast rotunda,—its walls nearly twenty 
feet thick. They are perfectly bare, except for a divi¬ 
sion into three stories. From this circular structure 


•See No. 34. 


164 



ROME 


No. 45 


5, 9 

rises the low dome, at first in a series of steps, and then 
smoothly rounding up to the eye of the dome,—in this 
case more truly an “eye” than in most domes, for it 
is a wide circular opening, thirty feet in diameter. It 
has never been closed by glazing, or by other means. 
Sun and rain are alike admitted, and the interior has 
no other source of light, aside from the lofty door¬ 
way. Naturally this circular opening, this sleepless 
Cyclopean eye of the Pantheon, is nowhere visible from 
without, except as one might look down from a balloon. 
We can just make out the rim; but no attempt was 
made to give it any external finish, although its inner 
margin still retains beautiful bronze mouldings en¬ 
circling the “eye.” And this distinction applies in 
general to the whole building, except the portico, 
Standing among other buildings, the present Pantheon 
was built for internal effect, and these walls of brick and 
concrete were covered, perhaps below with marble slabs, 
but above with stucco. It is a striking contrast with 
the dome of St. Peter’s, in which the exterior was con¬ 
sidered of the highest importance, and the interior sacri¬ 
ficed. There were whole classes of Roman buildings in 
which the external architecture was thought of little 
consequence,—among them the house, the villa, public 
baths. 

Certainly the Pantheon differs strikingly from any¬ 
thing about the Forum or the Palatine. Here we have 
for the first time a great Roman building which has 
never been unroofed, has never been counted among the 
ruins, or ceased for any length of time to be in use. 
There are in Rome a few other buildings which 
still retain their ancient vaulting, and have been 
restored to serve modern purposes, as, for example, 
the great church in the Baths of Diocletian. But the 

165 


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Pantheon is unique in its record of almost uninterrupted 
service, from the second century after Christ to the 
twentieth. At the Forum or in the Colosseum we had 
to draw largely upon our imaginations to restore build¬ 
ings which could seldom show so much as one-half of 
their former selves. In one case only did we find an 
entire roof still standing,—the little dome of the Temple 
of Romulus, son of Constantine’s rival, Maxentius, and 
that was so disguised as to appear a mere restoration. 
At last we have found a Roman edifice which has been 
disfigured, to be sure, but never destroyed. It seems 
the most veritable bit of ancient Rome that could be 
desired. From the perishable glories of the old imperial 
palaces we seem transported to a temple which belongs 
to every age, and to carry us back from century to 
century, without the smallest break of continuity. 
That inscription in large letters belongs to the reign of 
Augustus, and tells us that the builder of the original 
Pantheon was Marcus Agrippa, the son of Lucius,—in 
his third consulship. The year thus indicated is 27 B. C., 
memorable in Roman history as that in which the im¬ 
perial authority of Octavian was formally constituted, 
and sealed by the bestowal of the title Augustus. The 
date is then the very first year of the Roman Empire 
in its legitimate and permanent organization. Four 
years before the battle of Actium had given the sole 
power to Octavian by the defeat of his rival, Antony. 
Thus those bold letters seem to call vividly to mind the 
beginnings of an empire which was to last in the West 
until 476, and in the East, at Constantinople, the new 
Rome, until 1453; while the Holy Roman Empire, a re¬ 
vival of the western empire in the ninth century, lasted 
on until the nineteenth. Agrippa was the right hand 
of Augustus, in peace as in war,—had commanded for 

166 


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No. 45 


5, 9 

him at Actium. Among his many other public works 
he built Baths in the Campus Martius, and in connec¬ 
tion with them a temple, the original Pantheon. To 
that building—whether circular or not—this portico 
may have belonged. But the present rotunda, with its 
mighty dome, one hundred and forty-two feet in diam¬ 
eter and the same in height, dates from the reign of 
Hadrian (117-138 A. D.). This had not been suspected 
until very recently. But in 1891-92 a young French 
architect proved by the stamps upon the bricks of which 
the entire dome is constructed that we have here no 
work of the reign of Augustus, but a rebuilding of the 
time of Hadrian, the greatest builder of all the Roman 
emperors. 

Among its other adornments the Pantheon of Had¬ 
rian had beautiful bronze doors, still in use to the present 
time. It also had gilt-bronze tiles covering the whole 
roof, but these were carried off by an eastern emperor 
in the seventh century (663), in spite of the fact that 
the Pantheon had by that time been consecrated (609) 
as a Christian church. A church it still remains, and 
now a new chapter in its history has opened since it 
was chosen as the place of burial for the kings of Italy. 
There lie Victor Emanuel and Humbert, and Raphael 
as well, but the names of Agrippa and Augustus and 
Hadrian will always be preserved with a greater lustre 
by this, the most indestructible monument of the old 
Roman civilization. 

Through narrow, crooked streets we make our way , 
northward to the Tiber, near the famous old inn, the 
Bear, and the new bridge named in honor of the late 
King Humbert. 


167 


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Map 


46. The Tiber, the Castle of St. Angelo, and St. Peter's. 

Looking over the parapet of the new river-wall, we 
have this view of the river, the bridge leading to the 
Castle of St. Angelo, the low-pitched roofs of the Vati¬ 
can, and the dome of St. Peter’s. It was formerly a 
favorite view with artists, who drew and painted and 
etched this group of dome and bridge and castle from 
the windows of the tall houses which once lined the 
river-bank at this point. The picturesqueness of the 
scene has suffered by the building of this high embank¬ 
ment-wall on both sides, still painfully new and glisten¬ 
ing with the whiteness of its fresh-cut travertine,—a 
great protection against the floods of the Tiber, but a 
loss to the picturesque in the sacrifice of the meadows 
opposite, and the time-stained outer works of the castle, 
which now seems to be hiding itself behind the newness 
of this monotonous wall. The Bridge of St. Angelo 
has also been modernized. For the widening of the 
river at this point made it necessary to destroy a 
span at either end, and to replace those smaller arches 
by others of equal size with the three central spans,— 
all that now remains of Hadrian’s bridge. Worse than 
all, a hideous iron bridge has been erected just beyond, 
to give temporary relief to the congestion of travel, 
which had come to be positively dangerous whenever 
any great function was going on at St. Peter’s. The old 
houses upon this bank of the river have been pulled 
down to permit of a broader channel and a wider street. 

But the upper part of the castle remains unchanged 
by all these changes in its surroundings,—even the crowd¬ 
ing in of tall houses to the right, where there were beau¬ 
tiful meadows not many years ago. And nothing mars 
the perfect outline of the dome of St. Peter’s. From 
this distance it rises to its full height above the flat 

168 


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No. 46 


roofs of the church. The contrast with the dome of the 
Pantheon could not be more striking. The low dome 
which Michael Angelo aimed to imitate and surpass 
had no beauty from without,—nothing but its mass, 
suggestive of the upper part of a monstrous globe, or 
even of a vast balloon. This dome of St. Peter’s was 
designed to catch and hold the attention of every eye, 
no matter what the distance. And that end, if no 
other, it has fulfilled; for even the most critical—those 
most inclined to regret that a sculptor was ever allowed 
to exert such an influence in architecture—are forced 
to admit the fascination of that dome, especially when 
the church itself does not distract the attention. From 
this point the front of the church shows only the attica, 
with its open windows, its clock-faces, the sculptured 
Apostles, and the one small pediment. The lesser 
domes show clearly. To the left, directly over the iron 
bridge, we see the dome of the sacristy. Through the 
bridge and rising above it further to the left are the 
immense buildings of the hospital, S. Spirito. Over the 
last pier of the stone bridge towards the right a tall, 
narrow building divides the Borgo Nuovo (right) from 
the Borgo Vecchio (left), the principal approaches to 
St. Peter’s. Over the former rises that angle of the 
Vatican Palace which is nearest to the Piazza of St. 
Peter’s. Even from here we look into the court of 
St. Damasus, and may locate the private apartments of 
the Pope, though the windows are hidden behind house¬ 
tops.* 

Opposite the end of the bridge is the low entrance 
to the castle, beneath the lower battlements. Further 
to the right are embrasures for cannon. But the 
strength of the fortress is in its huge drum, rising un- 


•See No. 22. 


169 



No. 46 


ITALY 


Maps 


broken to a great height, and then crowned by that 
strange assortment of upper works,—wide embrasures for 
artillery, small port-holes, prisons, a tower, more battle¬ 
ments", the bronze angel, and finally the flag-mast. 
Here it has frowned down for centuries upon the muddy 
Tiber swiftly flowing by, once free and unrestrained, but 
now regulated by the modern engineers and their for¬ 
midable works. 

It is a spot to linger in, whether for those who have 
wandered hither from a world unknown when Hadrian’s 
tomb was built, or for these Romans who lean upon the 
parapet, the one in the prosaic dress of progressive 
Italy, the other in the picturesque costume of the 
dreamy, unimproved Campagna,—a flower-girl off duty, 
or an artist’s model waiting to have her dark face and 
gay colors perpetuated in some canvas by a student whom 
good fortune has at last brought to these banks of the 
Tiber. 

Moving down the river bank, the Tor di Nona, with 
its fascinating antiquity shops, where venerable things 
are sold, or even manufactured, we reach once more 
the Bridge of St. Angelo, crossed by us on our way to 
and from St. Peter’s; but we had no time then to loiter 
by the bridge and the castle. 

47. Bridge and Castle of St. Angelo. 

From full in front the Castle of St. Angelo seems to 
appear less forbidding than before. Certainly the 
upper portions wear even a peaceful look. There is 
that broad loggia, with its two slender columns, and 
then windows with Venetian blinds and balconies, as 
far removed from warfare in their suggestion as a tall 

170 


ROME 


No. 47 


5, 9 

tenement-house in Naples. But above are battlements 
crowning the square tower in the centre, and the angel 
with the sword, and the great bell at the top of the 
tower. 

About half-way down the drum we notice that the 
character of the masonry suddenly changes. The 
plain brickwork of papal restorations here gives way to 
a massive wall of large blocks of weathered travertine. 
This is all that can be seen from without of Hadrian’s 
mausoleum. The lower square substruction is now lost 
to view, since the whole level has risen in the course of 
ages. It was, however, an important feature in the 
architecture of the tomb,—a huge square of more than 
three hundred feet on each side, making a broad ter¬ 
race, upon which rose the cylinder, two hundred and 
forty feet in diameter. The massive walls of travertine 
and peperino were concealed from view by facings of 
marble, with the most lavish employment of columns 
and pilasters and sculpture. How we are to restore 
the upper part of the mausoleum is a question which is 
never likely to be settled, until perhaps some coin or 
sculptured relief shall be discovered, to present us with 
its outline as it was in its glory. But it appears to 
have been entirely encircled with two stories of marble 
columns, while above the upper cornice rose the conical 
marble roof. Upon the summit of the lofty cone stood 
a colossal statue of the emperor himself, not, as has 
often been said, the great bronze pine-cone, which once 
adorned a fountain in the atrium, of the old St. 
Peter’s, and may now be seen in one of the courts of 
the Vatican. The square substructure was adorned 
with a beautiful frieze, of which fragments have been 
found in recent years. It also provided ample space 
for the long series of inscriptions in memory of the 

171 


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ITALY 


Maps 


emperors and other members of the imperial family, 
whose ashes found their resting-place in this vast tomb. 
Within the immense concrete mass behind those rough 
blocks of travertine and peperino was the sepulchral 
chamber of the emperor, high up in the drum of the 
mausoleum, and reached by a circular passage slowly 
ascending. But the ashes have been scattered. The 
sarcophagus and its lid of Egyptian porphyry were 
separated in the middle ages, and removed, the one to 
the Lateran and the other to St. Peter’s. The sarco¬ 
phagus became the tomb of a pope, but perished in the 
destruction of the Lateran church in the fourteenth 
century. The lid served as a tomb for a German Roman 
emperor of the tenth century, Otto II, and is now the 
font in the baptistery of St. Peter’s. 

To connect his mausoleum directly with the Campus 
Martius, Hadrian built in 135 A. D. the beautiful 
bridge, the Pons Aelius, but long ago named Ponte St. 
Angelo. The three central arches are still in use, though 
often repaired, while the smaller arches (originally five 
in number) next the shore have given place, as we saw, 
to the recent improvements in connection with the 
walling in of the Tiber. But the new arches correspond 
perfectly with the old, and the necessity of widening the 
channel of the river at this critical curve in its course 
made the change sooner or later inevitable. The para¬ 
pet is adorned with statues of Sts. Peter and Paul, and 
then ten colossal angels inspired by Bernini at his low¬ 
est ebb. The Medici arms on the pedestal of St. Peter 
at the entrance to the bridge commemorate Pope 
Clement VII (1523-34), who erected these statues of 
the Apostles. A century and a half later the angels 
were added. 


172 


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No. 47 


5, 9 


The history of the Castle of St. Angelo is almost a 
history of the mediaeval Rome. Hadrian’s tomb only 
shared the fate of many of the tombs out in the Cam- 
pagna in being early converted into a fortress. But its 
position with reference to the Tiber and the bridge, and 
nearness to St. Peter’s gave it an importance to which 
its great strength alone could never have entitled it. 
During the Gothic wars in the age of Justinian it played an 
important part in the thrilling sieges which were the 
chief features of those wars. While Belisarius was de¬ 
fending Rome against Vitiges, the Goth, in 537, the 
attack of the barbarians was met by throwing down the 
statues still adorning the tomb upon the heads of the 
Gothic assailants. Two generations later, when Rome 
was desolated by the pestilence, Pope Gregory the Great 
(590-604) saw a vision of St. Michael sheathing his 
bloody sword. To this story the castle owes its name 
and the angel upon its summit, at first in marble, and 
now in bronze. In the bloody scenes of party strife in 
the Rome of the middle ages, while the popes still re¬ 
sided at the Lateran, the castle was incessantly changing 
hands, and always with fresh violence,—openly or in its 
dark dungeons. Shortly after the return of the popes 
from Avignon, or at least early in the fifteenth century, 
a long, covered passage was built to enable the pope to 
fiee in any sudden alarm to the castle, which thenceforth 
became the stronghold of the popes. In 1527 it resisted 
assault when Rome was sacked by the army of Charles V. 
In 1870, after the capture of Rome by Victor Emanuel, 
the Castle of St. Angelo fell into the hands of the king, 
who placed a garrison there. Thus the ancient fortress 
passed out of the hands of Pius IX. At last, in 1902, 
the garrison was withdrawn, and the Pope is spared 
the pain of seeing the Italian troops in possession. It 

173 


No. 48 


ITALY 


Mapa 


has now become a museum, after a career of fourteen 
centuries as the chief stronghold of Rome. 

We return to St. Peter’s with one special purpose, in 
addition to the desire to fix our first impressions. That 
purpose is the climbing of the dome. It would be worth 
doing, if the view extended no further than the broad 
roofs of St. Peter’s and the many courts of the Vatican. 
But the prospect is not so limited. It is bounded only by 
the reach of the eye towards the east and west, by the 
neighboring hills to the north and south. 

The ascent is made from within the church, first to 
the roof, where the small domes and houses of the work¬ 
men perpetually employed about the church give the 
impression of a miniature village perched upon the roof. 
The stairs then climb up between the inner and the 
outer dome to the lantern upon its crown. 

48. Rome, from the Dome of St. Peter f s. 

The first view to claim our attention is that straight 
down the nave, across the piazza between the sweep¬ 
ing colonnades, over the Borgo to the Castle of St. 
Angelo, and the city beyond the Tiber. As for St. 
Peter’s at our feet, its roofs are a study in themselves. 
They are partly tiled, partly covered, like the dome it¬ 
self, with lead, now yellowed by age. Over the great 
vestibule of the basilica one portion of the roof has an 
inward slope. The huge figures of Christ and the Apos¬ 
tles upon the balustrade have a curious look as seen 
from behind, since their backs are unfinished. Like our¬ 
selves, they seem to be enjoying this view down into the 
piazza. The triangular masses of masonry at the ex- 

174 





ROME 


No. 48 


5, 9 

treme right and left support the clock-dials, crowned 
with the tiara and the crossed keys. 

On either side of the piazza stretch the sickle-shaped 
colonnades of Bernini. The handles of the sickles have, 
to be sure, no columns, but only pilasters. The curving 
colonnades are nowhere seen to such advantage as 
from the dome, where the plan and purpose of the whole 
are so clear. In number the columns seem like a perfect 
forest, four complete rows of them on either side. If 
we wish to calculate their number, it is easy to count the 
columns down one-half of either side, and then multiply 
by sixteen. But this is a rough estimate. The actual 
number is said to be two hundred and eighty-four, in 
addition to eighty-eight piers! How high they are, may 
be judged by those long lines of cabs on the left,—mere 
spots of blackness compared with the columns soaring 
up into the sunlight. On the left is the nearest angle 
of the Vatican,—one of its most irregular corners. The 
piazza itself seems absolutely deserted at first sight, so 
completely is the life that is stirring down there swal¬ 
lowed up in the vast dimensions. We may recall again 
what we noticed before, that the entire Colosseum* 
would scarcely require more ground; but the fact is 
more impressive as we look down from this elevation. 
In the centre the obelisk is casting its long shadow 
like a sun-dial. At the corner beyond the last columns 
of the right-hand colonnade we recognize the house 
from the roof of which we had our best view of the facade 
of St. Peter’s.t Further on, and on the left side of the 
dark line of the Borgo Vecchio, we also recognize an old 
friend, in the house which gave us from its tiles our first 
general impression of the whole group,—St. Peter’s, the 


•See No. 22. 
tSee No. 23. 


175 



No. 48 


ITALY 


Maps 


piazza, and the Vatican.* The square is the Piazza Rus- 
ticucci, opening on the other (left) side into the Borgo 
Nuovo. These two lines converge towards their meet¬ 
ing-place near the Castle of St. Angelo.f The great drum 
rises conspicuously over the tiles. Its angel upon the 
summit may be seen but dimly against the dark masses 
of buildings beyond the Tiber. Returning from the 
castle in the direction of the Vatican, the eye follows 
the broken line of the long corridor which kept the 
palace and fortress in communication with one another, 
and enabled the popes many times over to take refuge 
in the castle. J 

The Ponte St. Angelo is partly concealed for us by its 
prosaic neighbor, the iron bridge. A little nearer are 
the long lines of S. Spirito, the great hospital, with its 
dark tower and its white church, glistening in the sun¬ 
light. Behind the church a mediaeval bell-tower; an¬ 
other smaller one is nearer to us and below. The high 
retaining-wall on the right is that of the Villa Barberini, 
—not a part of the city-walls, which lie just beyond. 

Over this bit of green, and on the further bank of the 
Tiber, is the domed church of the Florentines, St. John’s. 
Other churches lie beyond, but away in the distance we 
can make out Aracoeli on the Capitol, with the new 
monument to Victor Emanuel to the left of it. But 
these are so far away as to need a glass. Without such 
help one may discover the low dome of the Pantheon, 
always unimpressive as it loses itself among the house¬ 
tops. For its location, come back to this side of the 
Tiber, and the white church of S. Spirito, then follow a 
line drawn over the rear of that church, beyond a tall 


* See No. 22. 
tSee No. 46. 
tSee No. 47. 


176 



ROME 


No. 48 


5, 9 

house on the further bank, and to the left of a small 
but lofty church dome. The low rounding surface to 
the left of the last is the dome of the Pantheon, as differ¬ 
ent as anything that can be imagined from this lofty 
cupola of St. Peter’s. Further away, and to the right 
of the Pantheon, is the dark square tower of brick, 
which tradition has called the Tower of Nero, as that 
from which he looked down upon the burning 
Rome. It is, however, unmistakably mediaeval, and 
stands not far from the Column of Trajan.* Above the 
Ponte St. Angelo the most conspicuous building in the 
distance is the Quirinal, formerly a palace of the popes, 
but since 1870 the residence of the kings of Italy. The 
distant church beyond the Quirinal, and to the right of 
it, is S. Maria Maggiore, on the Esquiline. 

Beyond the Castle of St. Angelo is the new Ponte 
Umberto, leading to the unfinished Palace of Justice, 
a white mass, still covered in part by scaffoldings, be¬ 
hind and to the left of the castle. In that region a 
whole new quarter is springing up, where once were the 
Prati del Castello, the meadows of the Castle of St. 
Angelo. 

In the distance on our left the long mass of green 
is the Pincian Gardens, with the conspicuous Villa 
Medici and its two towers. Near the north (left) end 
of the gardens we see the domed churches which mark 
the end of the Corso at the Piazza del Popolo. The line 
of the Corso may be traced by a few landmarks, as 
S. Carlo, a tall dome over the Palace of Justice. Di¬ 
rectly over this dome lies the centre of the stranger’s 
quarter, the Piazza di Spagna, located for us here by 
the twin towers of S. Trinita, which stands at the head 
of the long staircase above the piazza,—the “Spanish 


* See No. 52. 


177 



No. 49 


ITALY 


Map 


Stairs ” of the tourists, though they are not known to 
the Romans by that name, and in reality belong to 
France! 

Dim in the distance is the green Campagna, the plain 
of Rome, bounded by the blue outlines of the Sabine 
Mountains. 

Turning towards the north, we exchange our view of 
the city and its endless housetops for the green freshness 
of the Vatican Gardens. 

49. The Pope’s Gardens from the Dome of St. Peter’s. 

At our feet we have the roof of the long irregular 
range of buildings, formerly the papal mint. For the 
popes minted their own coins for upwards of a thousand 
years. The lino of these roofs, that is, of their further 
edge, marks the direction of the mediaeval wall, built by 
Leo IV in the middle of the ninth century. Up to 
that time the whole Vatican district had been entirely 
unprotected, and St. Peter’s exposed to plunder by the 
Saracen pirates, who kept constantly returning to the 
attack. Leo thus created in reality a separate city, the 
Leonine City, protected by parallel walls to north and 
south, enclosing the crest of the Vatican Hill on the 
west, and reaching the Castle of St. Angelo on the east. 
The Vatican Gardens lie to the north of this old wall. 
In fact, the larger part of the palace, as it now exists, 
is beyond the line of Leo’s wall, which his successors 
destroyed in order to enlarge the Vatican. 

The garden consists of two parts, a wooded portion 
irregularly laid out, and then the garden proper beyond, 
in which mathematical order and precision rule. Thus, 
in providing a wood, or bosco, for the heat of midsummer, 
178 


5 


ROME 


No. 49 


and a sunny garden for more temperate seasons, the 
popes have simply followed the traditional practice of 
most Italian villas. And the view we now have before 
us may gain in interest, if we remember that it is typical 
of the Italian villa. 

In the foreground we have, on the right, an unbroken 
mass of tree-tops, among which the great dark stone 
pines are conspicuous, but the presence of a palm or two 
shows that Nature has not been allowed to rule 
alone, even in this, the most natural corner of the 
gardens. On the left the higher part of the garden 
about the casino forms a kind of transition from the 
bosco to the formal garden beyond. Here palms abound, 
and flowering shrubs, divided by serpentine paths and 
a broad driveway, while this whole portion of the garden 
is bounded by dark ilex-hedges, trimmed square and flat, 
like walls. In the middle the white walls of*the casino 
rise out of the cool greenness into brilliant sunlight. 
This is the summer-house of the popes. It was built 
by Ligorio, and finished in 1560 for Pius IV, a Medici 
pope in the time of Queen Elizabeth. Simple in ap¬ 
pearance and tasteful in architecture, it is nevertheless 
richly decorated with mosaics and ancient sculptures. 
The smaller building at the right is a loggia, with granite 
columns, upon the edge of the terrace, looking down 
into the lower garden. It is flanked by flights of stone 
stairs. Sculptures adorn the balustrade, as also two 
diminutive open halls, one of which is lost to us behind 
the pines, while the other looks as if it were a part of 
the casino, instead of standing free, as it really does. 
The whole group is an excellent specimen of landscape 
architecture as it was practised by the Italian masters 
of the sixteenth century, inspired by descriptions and 
remains of old Roman villas and gardens. 

179 


No. 49 


ITALY 


Map 


The Vatican Garden in the narrower sense is that great 
enclosed rectangle beyond the ilex hedges. It is a formal 
garden of the most extreme type,—everything laid out 
with the utmost order and regularity. Flower-beds 
mark out the lines of geometrical figures, and walks are 
painfully precise. Symmetry reigns from one end to the 
other, in the disposition of fountains and vases and 
palms, in fact of every feature of the garden. On the 
left again are dense masses of pines and other trees, 
a favorite portion of the gardens with the Pope, 
who has another casino by a picturesque round tower 
of the Leonine Wall. On the right we recognize over 
tree-tops and hedges the pavilion which we entered, to 
visit the Library and the Sculpture Gallery of the Vati¬ 
can. Over the entrance to the Sculpture Gallery is a 
circular hall, the Sala Rotonda, filled with sculptures. 
The pine trees in the distance, beyond the limits of the 
formal garden, are close to the Wall of Urban VIII, 
the seventeenth century defenses of the Vatican and 
the Borgo. All that lies beyond represents a new quar¬ 
ter since 1870, hastily built in days of real estate specu¬ 
lation. 

Over these cheerless roofs are the broad meadows of 
the Tiber. The hill is the Monte Mario, the highest 
summit (450 feet) in the vicinity of Rome. Its southern 
and western slopes are climbed by the Triumphal Way. 
The crest of the hill is marked by the white buildings of 
a villa among dark cypresses, but a fortress has now 
taken possession of the Monte Mario, and visitors are 
no longer permitted to enjoy the wide view which it 
commands, or to visit the Roman remains discovered in 
excavations for the earthworks. It was there that an 
inscription known to all classical scholars was found— 
the simple epitaph of a girl of thirteen, Minicia Marcella, 

180 


5 


ROME 


No. 50 


whose death was lamented in a graceful letter of the 
Younger Pliny. Still another change awaits the Monte 
Mario. For permission has lately been given to Marconi 
to erect his tall masts upon that summit, and soon Rome 
will send her messages, political and ecclesiastical— 
the blessings of her venerable pontiff and the congratu¬ 
lations of her young king, with all the usual rumors and 
contradictions of rumors—by way of yonder height. 
If it never figured in history as yet, if it has no past, 
it at least shall have a future, in the wireless messages 
which are to make the world smaller than ever. 

Once more we leave St. Peter’s with regret, to return 
to the left bank of the Tiber, and on in the direction 
of the Quirinal. About half-way between the Corso and 
the Royal Palace we come to the great fountain, so 
long a familiar object in illustrations of every 
kind. 


50 . The Fountain of Trevi . 

Familiar as it has become, and endeared beyond its 
deserts to the heart of the traveler, the Fountain of 
Trevi was one of the newest things in Rome, until 1870 
came, and brought in its train so many innovations 
that this fountain now begins to take on the character 
of an antiquity. But perhaps that is due in part to its 
connection with a genuine work of antiquity, to which 
it bears somewhat the relation of a modern successor. 
It is not unlike the smart shop, making a great display 
of finery, but vouching for its long standing by a sign 
in the window “Founded in 1720,” or whatever the 
year may be. With more than a shop-windowful of 
images, the Fountain of Trevi advertises its cooling 
wares; and the date at which the house entered upon 

181 


No. 50 


ITALY 


Map 


its “rushing’ ’ business would have to read “ Founded in 
19 B. C.” Whether Agrippa, the builder of the Pan¬ 
theon, and of aqueducts to supply his Baths,* erected a 
fountain on this spot, or not, is uncertain, though 
probable. At any rate his Aqua Virgo, descending from 
the Pincian, at first underground, and then upon arches, 
passed over this site, and presently turned towards the 
Corso, on its way to the Baths of Agrippa, behind his 
Pantheon. Some of the arches still exist (as repaired 
by Claudius), only two blocks behind the fountain. 
The water was obtained from a spring out in the Cam- 
pagna, and the aqueduct was constructed at the sole 
cost of Agrippa, who also erected basins and fountains 
in large numbers. The legend was that a girl had 
pointed out the spring to some soldiers, and that the 
aqueduct thus received its unusual name of the Virgin. 
But the purity of the water was its chief commendation, 
and to this day there is no better water in Rome than 
that supplied, clear and cool, to Trevi and the other 
fountains—as in the Piazza di Spagna—fed by the same 
aqueduct. Rome has certainly been highly favored in 
the healthfulness and abundance of the water derived 
from unfailing springs in the Campagna, or brought 
down from the mountains, to a distance of even sixty 
miles.| The modern city has had only to restore a few 
of these aqueducts, in order to obtain water enough for 
all its uses, and for these roaring fountains as well. 
And a goodly number of them there are, too, some 
decked out with elaborate architecture. 

But the Fountain of Trevi is the most imposing of 
all. For here an entire palace was laid under contribu¬ 
tion, and provided with a new front in harmony with 


•See No. 45. 
tSee No. 61. 


182 



5 


ROME 


No. 50 


the style of the fountain itself, and forming wings on 
either side of the central mass. The latter has been in¬ 
spired obviously enough by the Arch of Constantine.* 
Instead of the central archway is a great niche with 
coffered vaulting. In place of the side arches are square 
recesses, also filled with sculpture. The Dacian cap¬ 
tives over the columns are here replaced by allegorical 
female figures, the columns themselves by half-columns. 
Above the attica, with its inscription in the central 
panel, is a heavy balustrade, and just where the chariot 
and horses of the triumphing general would have stood 
upon a Roman arch, is a huge frontispiece,—the Corsini 
arms, supported by lively angels and topped by the 
keys and the triple crown. It is, after all, only a 
modern version of the old triumphal motive. Yet the 
triumph is not that of the pope who built, but of a 
fresh-water Neptune, high upon his shell-chariot, under 
the central niche. Prancing steeds, guided by Tritons, 
blowing conch-shells, seem to be drawing him forth over 
the cascades, which spring from basin to basin. On 
either side the architect has simulated rough rocks, 
through which and over which little streams are cours¬ 
ing in all directions, until they reach the great basin 
below. Everything is fanciful and perfectly unreason¬ 
able; but such w r as the sculpture and the architecture 
of the time. The builder, Clement XII, has inscribed 
his name and the date, 1735, high overhead upon the 
attica. But two of his successors have also claimed the 
credit, Benedict XIV, in letters of unseemly size upon 
the frieze, and Clement XIII, in the apse and on either 
side of it, the last stating that he added sculptures in 1762. 

Before the fountain there is a stirring life, except in the 
dead of night, but the noise of its waters can be heard 


•See No. 40. 


183 



No. 50 


ITALY 


Map 


at some distance down the crooked streets,—a help to 
the stranger who is just learning their mazes. Foreign¬ 
ers may be seen sometimes dropping their coppers into 
the fountain and then turning sheepishly away. They 
are just leaving Rome, and cannot free themselves from 
the superstition of these latter days, that they will thus 
insure their return to the Eternal City. It is, however, 
a survival of the old Roman custom of offering coppers 
to the nymph of a fountain. Nowadays the coins are 
not left for the archaeologist of the future to dig up and 
label; the street boys wade into the basin and gather 
them from those artificial rocks. 

For more than a thousand j^ears, at the least, the 
waters have been flowing here, an eighth-century pope 
having restored the earlier fountain, perhaps the work 
of Agrippa himself. In the light of such antiquity the 
present Fountain of Trevi, not yet two centuries old, 
seems painfully modern; and it is an easy matter to 
find fault with the absurdities of its architecture and 
sculpture. But still it has its own peculiar hold upon 
the affections of those who have once been charmed 
by Rome,—even decadent Rome of the seventeenth and 
eighteenth centuries. It may linger in our memories 
when some things more beautiful, but possibly less in¬ 
dividual, have been forgotten. 

Narrow streets bring us from the Fountain of Trevi 
to the Colonna Palace, under arched bridges which con¬ 
nect the principal floor of the Palace with the gardens 
across the street, on the lower slopes of the Quirinal. 
We soon find ourselves in the principal gallery. 

51 . Gallery of the Colonna Palace. 

Standing by the columns which separate an ante-room 
from the gallery proper, we have this vista over a 

184 


5 


ROME 


No. 51 


glistening floor of polished marble. The stately hall is 
180 feet long, without the ante-rooms at either end, and 
45 feet in breadth,—the width of the Sistine Chapel,* 
which is some fifty feet shorter than this gallery. Rare 
marbles, in column, pilaster, and floor, give these 
Roman galleries their peculiar effect of richness. It 
was' not for nothing that the ancient ruins were there, 
to be ransacked for every variety of precious marble, or 
rare alabaster, brought by the old Romans from Africa, or 
Greece, or the East. No other city could furnish such 
materials ready to hand for the adornment of churches 
and palaces. It is not strange then to find that the 
typical palace or church at Rome makes a great display 
of polished marbles, in almost all cases the plunder ob¬ 
tained from ancient buildings. The old taste for this 
particular form of splendor still survives, and in the 
midst of these rich materials it is scarcely surprising that 
the frescoes and other decorations aim at a striking 
effect. Every Roman palace or villa, from the time of 
the Renaissance on, has had to make a brave show with 
at least one such gallery. Some few were painted by 
the great masters and their pupils, but there was, as a 
rule, a decided preference for brilliant effects, gained by 
colored marbles, gilding, and a lavish display of sculp¬ 
ture. The ceiling alone might be left to the painter. 
Here we do not find the work of a Michael Angelo. 
The style is theatrical and sensational, but after all not 
out of keeping with the undue richness of the walls. The 
central section of the ceiling represents a naval battle,— 
that of Lepanto, in which the Turks were defeated by 
the fleet of the league under Don Juan of Austria, in 
the Gulf of Corinth (1571). In that battle one of the 
Colonnas had commanded the fleet of the Pope (Pius V). 


* See No. 28. 


185 



No. 51 


ITALY 


Map 


The whole ceiling celebrates the praises of the Colonna 
family. The painters, however, are obscure names out 
of the seventeenth century. 

On the walls are a few paintings by celebrated mas¬ 
ters, but they are crowded in among Venetian mirrors 
painted with flowers, and tall panels filled with trophies, 
while two tiers of glittering crystal chandeliers d&zzle 
the eyes. In the midst of such lavish decorations one 
can scarcely think of the sculptures, which line both 
walls, mounted upon carved pedestals, or upon tables. 
But after all they are only a part of the adornment of 
the gallery, not something to be studied in themselves, 
and for whose display to the best advantage the gallery 
itself exists, as at the Vatican or in the Capitoline 
Museum. Most of them are also inferior works, ex¬ 
tensively restored and retouched by the hand of modern 
sculptors. Every great Roman family has such a col¬ 
lection, to scatter about its palace, or even to expose 
to the weather at its villa. No one in the family seems 
to care for them in particular; no one distinguishes with 
any rigor between works which have some real merits, 
and those which count among inferior examples. 
They seem to be part of the furniture of the aristocratic 
household. Without antiques it would scarcely be a 
palace; certainly there would be no outward evidence 
of the fact that the family was rich and celebrated al¬ 
ready in the days of the Renaissance, when no man of 
social position could fail to be an ardent collector—and 
reckless restorer—of Greek and Roman sculptures. 

And yet, if any Roman family could escape the ne¬ 
cessity of proving its antiquity by the display of its 
furniture, including marbles and canvases, it would 
surely be the house of Colonna, the most celebrated of 
all the mediaeval houses, through centuries of a bloody 

186 


5 


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No. 52 


rivalry with the Orsini and other noble families. Of 
their old stronghold one tower now remains, but the rest 
has given place to other buildings and to this great 
palace, begun by a Colonna Pope, Martin V, in the 
fifteenth century (1417-1431). But later additions 
have obscured or disguised whatever had been built in 
the age of the Renaissance, and all that we see repre¬ 
sents the taste of the seventeenth and eighteenth cen¬ 
turies. Still it is Roman,—this palace of a family which 
covers a thousand years with its history. 

For a few moments we ascend the new Via Nazionale, 
passing the old tower of the Colonnas, of which we were 
just speaking, and then descend a flight of stairs into 
the “Forum of Trajan.” 

52. Column and “Forum” of Trajan. 

We find ourselves in an open square, of which far 
the larger part lies some distance below the level of the 
surrounding streets, and is enclosed by a retaining-wall 
and an iron railing. The foreground is filled with 
broken granite columns in transverse rows. Beyond 
these the lofty Column of Trajan towers into the air. 
On the right and left are churches, which seem to con¬ 
sist of nothing but a dome. Between the churches are 
shops, and over these buildings the rear of a palace 
(Valentini). 

The whole place is known as the “Forum of Trajan,” 
but in reality these rows of columns belonged, not to the 
Forum itself, but to the Basilica Ulpia, which closed 
Trajan’s Forum on the northwestern side. The real 
Forum of Trajan still remains underground, except for 
a few remnants against the Quirinal Hill, and a narrow 
margin of pavement here by the basilica. What Trajan 

187 


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Map 


(98-117 A. D.) planned was not only another forum— 
as Julius Csesar and Augustus and Vespasian and 
Nerva had each opened up a new forum in the region to 
the north and northeast of the old republican Forum— 
but a vast group of buildings, including a basilica, which 
was to outshine that of Julius*, and a monumental 
column, two libraries and a temple. If the ground 
where we are now standing were to be excavated, it 
would bring us down to the level of this latest of the 
imperial fora,—a vast open space, perhaps twice the size 
of the old Forum, and surrounded by columns, for the 
most part in double rows. 

The basilica which we have now before us had, as 
we can clearly see, a broad nave, and two side-aisles, 
separated by these granite columns. When this spot 
was excavated in 1812-1814, at first by the French au¬ 
thorities, and then under papal orders, the columns 
were all flat upon the ground, and hence the chances are 
not large that any one of these stumps now occupies its 
original base. But at any rate we can make out the 
ground-plan, and the marble floor has not suffered from 
restoration. Of the columns there were originally more 
than one hundred. The width of the nave is impressive, 
—•more than eighty feet, or about thirty feet wider than 
the nave of the Basilica Julia. In the dimensions, as in 
the general plan, we shall find that the Church of St. 
Paul-outside-the-Wallst has many suggestions of this 
secular basilica, which had at either end a great apse 
for the law-courts. The entire length of the Basilica of 
Trajan, including the apses, was not much less than the 
long diameter of the Colosseum. In many respects it 
must have been one of the most impressive of all the 


* See Nos. 32 and 41. 
fSee No. 56 


188 



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No. 52 


structures erected by the emperors. The architect was 
a Greek, Apollodorus of Damascus. 

Beyond the basilica one entered a very small court, 
with a library building to the right, and another to the left! 
In the centre of the court stood the Column of Trajan. 

This great sculptured column seems to have been the 
first monument of the kind erected in Rome. The pedestal 
was designed by the imperial builder for his own tomb, 
and his ashes were laid.away in a chamber beneath 
the column. The urn was of gold. And a gilt-bronze 
statue of Trajan stood upon the top of the column. It 
was removed, and undoubtedly melted down, as early 
as the sixth century. The present statue of St. Peter 
was not put in its place until a thousand years later,— 
by Sixtus V, in 1587. 

The column itself, including the capital, but exclud¬ 
ing the pedestal, is one hundred Roman feet in height. 
Its entire shaft is constructed of drums of marble, 
sculptured from the bottom to the top in twenty-three 
bands, spirally ascending. It is a pictorial history of 
the wars which Trajan carried on beyond the Danube, 
—the conquest of the new province of Dacia. The 
lower bands can be distinctly seen from beneath, but the 
eye soon begins to fail, and the remaining sculptures to 
the top make no other impression than that of wonder 
at so much misdirected industry. If we recall, how¬ 
ever, that the column did not stand by itself, but in the 
small court between the basilica and the libraries, and 
that probably all of these buildings had upper galleries 
—certainly the basilica had an upper story over the 
aisles—it is easier to understand that the sculptures 
were not wasted, but could be studied from tier to tier, 
as one passed around the court, first at the level of the 
ground, and then above. For our knowledge of the 
189 


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ITALY 


Maps 


Roman army, of the arms and accoutrements of the 
soldiers, of siege operations and military bridges, of 
everything connected with an army in the field, these 
realistic reliefs are of the greatest value. The human 
figures are said to number no less than 2,500. 

Upon the pedestal is an inscription of the year 114 
A. D., which seems to say that the height of the column 
represents the depth of the earth (a ridge connecting the 
Capitol and the Quirinal) removed by Trajan to make 
room for these public works. Certainly a great space 
had to be leveled, but the inscription can hardly be 
taken in a literal sense. 

On the other side of the column, where the houses 
stand, and the Valentini Palace, lay the Temple of Tra¬ 
jan, erected by his successor, Hadrian. This was the 
final member in the whole group of buildings. It stood 
in a colonnaded court, and from its lofty steps gave 
still another point of view from which to decipher the 
warlike scenes in the upper part of the spiral. And the 
emperor, whose achievements thus mounted up to 
heaven, above his mortal remains, received in that tem¬ 
ple the honors due to a divinity. 

A few steps from the “Forum of Trajan” bring us 
to a narrow street skirting the foot of the Capitol, 
beneath the great monument to Victor Emanuel, which 
looks down the Corso. Presently we reach the Mam- 
ertine Prison* and climb the stairs to the square of 
the Capitol, between the two museums, the Capitoline 
on the right, and the Conservatori on the left. We 
enter the former, climb the long stairs, and find our¬ 
selves before the “ Dying Gaul,” in the same room with 
the “Marble Faun” of Hawthorne’s romance. 


♦See No. 33. 


190 



5, 6 


ROME 


No. 53 


53» The Dying Gaul, Capitoline Museum. 

This statue was long known as the 11 Dying Gladiator,’’ 
and Byron, in his Childe Harold, wrote pathetic lines on 
this unfortunate, 

Butchered to make a Roman holiday. 

But a closer study of the work itself, and of others 
with which it must be associated, shows that the sub¬ 
ject is not a fallen gladiator in the Colosseum, but a 
Gallic warrior on the field of battle. He is not one of 
Caesar’s Gauls, however, for the statue is more than a 
century older than the time of Caesar, and never had 
a closer connection with anything Roman than in the 
fact that it was brought to Rome, as many other works 
of Greek art had been, to adorn the dwelling of some 
man of wealth and culture, or a public place. 

There was an earlier contact with Gallic hordes, which 
inspired some noble works of Greek sculpture. In the 
third century before Christ, Gauls from the Danube in¬ 
vaded Greece, laying waste the country, pillaging the 
sacred shrines of Delphi (273), and at length passing 
over into Asia Minor, where they at last found a home 
for themselves in that inland region known thereafter 
as Galatia. Their warlike spirit led them to take ser¬ 
vice as mercenaries in the armies of the Hellenistic 
kings, and as such, or in independent raids, they made 
themselves a terror to the rich and prosperous Greek 
cities of the western coast. Among these was Perga- 
mon, whose king, Attalus I (241-197 B. C.), gained de¬ 
cisive victories over them. As the saviour of his city, 
from destruction at the hands of these wild barbarians, 
Attalus was celebrated in works of art by the flourish¬ 
ing school of sculptors at Pergamon. By his orders 
they produced a whole series of groups and single fig¬ 
ures, mostly in bronze, in which the defeat of the Gauls 

191 


No. 53 


ITALY 


Maps 


should be commemorated. A long list of these could 
be made, since many of them still survive in widely 
scattered museums. But these are apparently marble 
copies, in many cases, of originals in bronze. The 
critics agree, however, that the copies were probably 
produced in Pergamon itself. In this case the marble 
is not Italian, but from some quarry at the eastern end 
of the Mediterranean. In the bronze original the statue 
may date from about 220-200 B. C., and there is no 
reason for assuming that this marble copy is more than 
a generation or two later. It is clear that the art of 
Pergamon—one of the most famous centres for sculp¬ 
ture in the Alexandrian age—had suffered no decline. 

Sitting upon his large oval shield is a dying Gallic 
warrior. With his right hand he supports himself; but 
it is an unsteady support; for the hand is turned in 
towards the body, to relax the tension of the muscles 
about that bleeding wound in the right side. The left 
knee is drooping, the right leg will soon relax. In a 
moment the pain and the struggle will be over. The 
face shows no Greek fatalism, or calm submission to the 
inevitable; it is a wild, barbaric resistance to the very 
last. This expression, and the position of the wound, 
show that he has not inflicted the blow himself. It is 
often said that he has killed himself to avoid capture,— 
the same motive that we find in a celebrated Gallic 
group in another gallery, also from a studio at Per¬ 
gamon. The long curved trumpet, which lies broken 
upon the shield, tells the story. While blowing his 
trumpet he has been overtaken by the enemy, and mor¬ 
tally wounded in the unguarded right side. A sword 
lying upon the base, near the right hand, has been re¬ 
stored, together with that part of the *base, in the six¬ 
teenth century, when the statue was found at Rome. 

192 


ROME 


No. 64 


6 , 6 

With the sculptors of the Pergamene school, as later 
with the Greek artists who worked at Rome, the bar¬ 
barian types were favorite subjects. Here the northern 
race is indicated by the nose and prominent chin, by 
the stiff and unmanageable hair far down upon the 
neck, by the Gallic twisted collar, the shield and trumpet, 
and in a subtler fashion by the suggestions of a thicker 
and coarser skin. Tt is the barbarian, in all his native 
strength, as portrayed for us by the delicate observa¬ 
tion and unlimited technical skill of the Asiatic Greek. 

A MORNING BV THE TIBER 

We begin with that bend in the river which brings it 
nearest to the Palatine Hill,—the Cattle Market, or 
Forum Boarium, of the ancient city. The open square, 
which is its modern representative, is much frequented 
by shepherds and goatherds from the Campagna. But 
it also has not a few reminders of the past,—a venerable 
church, S. Maria in Cosmedin, with a tall mediaeval 
tower, and also two old Roman temples. 

54. The “ Temple of Vesta.” 

This round temple close by the bank of the Tiber is 
one of the most familiar objects in Rome. But the 
picturesqueness of the situation has been ruined in the 
construction of the new river-wall, which is so high 
behind the temple as to make the latter stand in a de¬ 
pression deeper than ever, while the trees which once 
lined the bank have given place to a dusty waste. 

The temple itself is of the circular form,—a very small 
cella, or temple proper, with a lofty door and two win¬ 
dows, and then the encircling row of fluted Corinthian 
columns of white marble. The entablature has dis- 


193 


No. 54 


ITALY 


Maps 


appeared completely, and of the twenty columns, one 
(behind, towards the river) is missing. For centuries 
it has been roofed in this primitive fashion, very much 
to the sorrow of the archaeologists, who mourn the loss 
of the entablature, and the domed roof, no doubt of 
marble. Artists, however, have shown a great fond¬ 
ness for this irregular roof of tiles, casting its deep 
shadows over the battered capitals and the slender 
shafts below. As usual, the interests of art and science 
are not to be reconciled. For many centuries it was a 
church, dedicated at first to St. Stephen, and then to 
the Virgin. Otherwise it would hardly have escaped 
complete destruction. 

In days when the Forum, region had not been 
excavated, and the real site of the Temple of Vesta* 
could not be determined, it was confidently assumed 
that this must have been the temple which was the 
hearthstone of the Roman state. Hence the name, 
which still clings to it, in spite of the certainty that the 
real Vesta temple was beneath the northern angle of the 
Palatine, and not near the river. The circular form is 
mainly responsible for the error, although other circular 
temples are mentioned in ancient writers, and a temple 
in this form dedicated to Hercules is known to have 
existed in this very quarter, the Forum Boarium. 

It is one thing, however, to prove that the popular 
name cannot possibly be correct, and quite another to 
discover and establish the right name. With such 
questions as these scholars have to concern themselves, 
and upon these matters they spend untold hours, to 
the astonishment of the mass of people, who cannot see 
why the old name needs to be disturbed. Often it 
happens that the rival theories provoke increasing ani- 


* See Nos. 32, 36. 


194 



ROME 


No. 54 


5, 9 

mosity, until in some lucky moment a mangled slab 
from an inscription is brought to light, with three or 
four letters which settle the question forever, to the 
confusion of one party among the specialists, and the 
triumph of the other. In the case of this temple, how¬ 
ever, the controversy is still being waged. And no in¬ 
scribed words have come to light, to tell us to what 
divinity this beautiful temple was consecrated. Ac¬ 
cording to some it was the Temple of Mater Matuta; 
according to others, that of Portunus; while a third 
view has inclined to Hercules; and this does not ex¬ 
haust the list. For quite a number of temples and 
shrines existed in and about the Cattle Market, and the 
crowds of people who traded here could pay their de¬ 
votions to various minor divinities and some greater 
ones. But it still remains impossible to identify these 
different sites. And it is probable that the graceful 
temple before us, so picturesque in its partial ruin, will 
be nameless for some time to come. 

As for its date, it unquestionably represents a rebuild¬ 
ing of some older shrine. The quarter was not one 
chosen for new temples in imperial times. This spot 
had evidently been hallowed by ancient memories al¬ 
ready in the time in which the present temple was 
erected. That appears to have been within the first 
century of our era, possibly even in the reign of Augus¬ 
tus. 

What its name and age may be, does not trouble these 
hatless children playing on the steps of the temple or 
among the piles of stones. And neither the donkey nor 
his young master concerns himself about the antiquity 
of that venerable little wagon, which has traveled over 
many a mile of Roman road. 


195 


No. 55 


ITALY 


Maps 


Close by the nameless round temple is a modern 
bridge across the Tiber. 

55 . The Tiber and the Island . 

Standing upon this new bridge, we look down into 
the foaming waters of the “yellow Tiber.” On our left 
is a fragment of a ruined bridge. It is the Ponte Rotto, 
now reduced to a single arch in midstream. A few 
years ago two more were standing, and a short suspen¬ 
sion bridge connected that pier on our left with the 
shore by the “Temple of Vesta.” The new bridge, very 
solid in appearance, has borrowed the old name, and is 
popularly known as the New Broken Bridge. That 
ruined arch seems on the point of discharging the few 
stones that remain into the river. But so they have 
stood for many years. What we see is not an ancient 
ruin, however. The old Roman bridge upon that spot 
was finished in 142 B. C. by Scipio the Younger, the 
destroyer of Carthage, and Mummius, the destroyer of 
Corinth. But the name, the iEmilian Bridge, was de¬ 
rived from an earlier censor, who began the work. 
From its slanting direction this bridge was especially 
exposed to the risk of destruction in time of floods. 
And it has been destroyed no less than four times, from 
the third to the sixteenth century. Of this last date is 
all that now remains. 

Straight before us lies the Island, united with the 
shores by a single bridge on either side. That on the 
right is the oldest of the Roman bridges still in use, and 
one of the best preserved monuments of the Republic. 
This was the Fabrician Bridge, mentioned by Horace. 
It was built by a Fabricius in 62 B. C., the year after 
the consulship of Cicero. The inscriptions may still be 
read, with their republican spelling. Between the two 

196 


ROME 


No. 55 


5, 9 

arches is a smaller arch over the central pier, to allow 
free passage for floods. 

On the other side of the Island is a new bridge, in all 
the whiteness of fresh travertine, in striking contrast 
with the brown and* weathered Fabrician Bridge. But 
the central arch, behind the Ponte Rotto, is old, dating, 
at least in part, from the time of Julius Caesar. It bore 
the name of Cestius, its original builder, but had been 
restored in the fourth century, and again in the eleventh. 
The recent alterations have been a part of the regulation 
of the Tiber, executed at great cost since 1870, when an 
extraordinary flood occurred three months after the en¬ 
trance of the Italian troops into the city. But even 
this huge embankment—we can see it through the 
arches of the Fabrician Bridge—has not proved a per¬ 
fect protection, for in December, 1900, the Tiber rose 
above this wall, and flooded the whole Campus 
Martius, and even the Forum. 

Over the Fabrician Bridge, and the young trees along 
the river-wall, we see two domed churches,—a St. An¬ 
drew, to the right, and a S. Carlo. Between those 
churches lay the Portico of Pompey, connected with 
his theatre, a little further to the left. A hall opening 
upon the portico was the scene of the assassination of 
Caesar. Nothing remains of Pompcy’s buildings, except 
below ground and in the cellars of the houses. That 
was the quarter in which the three stone theatres were 
all to be found,—that of Marcellus near the end of the 
Fabrician Bridge, further to the right, that of Balbus in 
the direction of this church of S. Carlo, but not so far 
away, near the palace of the Cenci family. 

The island itself shows the church and quaint mediae¬ 
val tower of St. Bartholomew. Another old tower 
stands by the bridge on the right. The church occu- 
197 


No. 55 


ITALY 


Map 


pies the site of the Temple of Aesculapius. At either 
end of the island the ancient river-wall terminated in 
the form of the bow or the stern of a ship, the whole 
shape of the island being rather suggestive of a vessel,— 
that is, before it had been disfigured by sand-bars and 
mud-banks, which have unhappily increased steadily 
since the river has been “ regulated.” 

Over the left margin of the island, and the abutment 
of the Cestian Bridge, is the distant dome of St. Peter’s. 
Further to the left is the Janiculum, near the convent 
of S. Onofrio. 

In this part of the Tiber we seem to come nearer 
than anywhere else to republican Rome, with its old 
bridges, its temples by the river-bank. And we feel 
the nearness to the heart of the ancient city,—the Forum 
and the Palatine. 

Leaving the Ponte Rotto we follow the left bank of 
the river, beneath the steep slopes of the Aventine, to 
the western angle of that hill, where the street leaves 
the Tiber, and runs towards the Protestant Cemetery and 
the Gate of St. Paul’s. By this gate the Ostian Way 
passed through the Wall of Aurelian, near the Pyramid 
of Cestius. It is along the line of that ancient thorough¬ 
fare, once alive with all the traffic between Rome and 
its seaport, Ostia, that we make our way to the basilica 
of St. Paul’s-outside-the-Walls. The church lies a mile 
and a half beyond the gate. In the middle ages a long 
portico connected St. Paul’s with the city, but now there 
is nothing better than an ill-paved street, with a slow 
tramway. We enter by the transept, and walking the 
length of the nave, look back toward the high- 
altar. 


198 


8 


ROME 


No. 56 


56 . Interior of St. Paul’s-outside-the-Walls. 

This noble interior represents the early Christian 
basilica in its highest development,—a broad nave of 
most imposing proportions, with two aisles on either 
side. Long rows of columns, supporting small arches, 
carry the eye forward to the altar and the apse. The 
nave terminates in the so-called “triumphal arch,” 
adorned with mosaics, and borne by two columns still 
more colossal than those which flank the nave. Beyond 
lies the transept, and the tribune,—a great apse, the 
vaulting of which is also filled with mosaics. But the 
view is interrupted by a lofty canopy, richly adorned 
with bronze, and sustained by four columns of the pre¬ 
cious Oriental alabaster. Beneath this towering bal¬ 
dachin is an older canopy in the Gothic style, a beautiful 
mediaeval work (1285) from the hand of Arnolfo, the 
architect of the cathedral of Florence. A row of lamps 
at the base of the great baldachin and its malachite 
pedestals, marks the confessio, the tomb of the saint. 

It is probable that the Apostle—whose place of exe¬ 
cution was almost certainly at the Three Fountains, a 
mile and a half beyond—was at first buried in a tomb 
not far from the Ostian Way. A basilica was erected 
over the tomb, according to tradition, by Constantine. 
But the nearness of the road (behind the present apse) 
limited the size of the structure so seriously that it 
seemed small and mean in comparison with the basilica 
of St. Peter by the Neronian Circus, on the Vatican 
Hill. And so, before the century was out, a new St. 
Paul's was built on a much grander scale. For the 
church was now reversed, in order to gain more 
room. Hence the apse is towards the east, instead 
of the west, as had been the early tradition, and 
the long nave extended not towards the road, but in 
190 


No. 56 


ITALY 


Map 


the direction of the Tiber. That was the great basilica 
which Theodosius had begun and Honorius completed; 
which was therefore new when Alaric and his Goths 
sacked the city in 410. 

Eighty marble columns, in four rows, sustained the 
roofs. In size and magnificence it rivaled the old 
St. Peter’s. Unlike the old St. Peter’s, it escaped de¬ 
struction at the hands of the ambitious popes of the 
Renaissance, owing its immunity from alterations and 
restorations to the extravagant cost of the new church 
at the Vatican. Even into the nineteenth century it re¬ 
mained almost unchanged, as an image of the age of 
Theodosius, and survived all the raids of the Saracen 
pirates, the sieges and plunderings of Rome, from the 
Visigoths and the Vandals to the soldiers of Charles V,— 
only to fall a victim to the flames in 1823, within the 
memory of Pope Leo XIII ! In the course of repairs 
the roof was set on fire, and falling down to the floor 
of the nave and aisles, produced such heat as to ruin at 
least half of the columns. Little could be saved from 
the old basilica, except for the western front, the tri¬ 
umphal arch, and the tribune. 

The restoration of the church occupied many years, 
and even now the atrium, or forecourt, is still unfin¬ 
ished. In 1854 the present church was dedicated by 
Pius IX. Its chief feature is its forest of gray granite 
columns, eighty in number. Each is a single piece, and 
highly polished. They were quarried on the shores of 
Lago Maggiore in Northern Italy*, brought on rafts down 
the Po, and then by ships to the Tiber. Above the 
arches on either side are mosaic portraits of all the 
popes. They are five feet in diameter, and the series 
is continued in the aisles. Of course all of the earlier 


*See Nos. 95 and 96. 


200 



8 


ROME 


No. 56 


portraits are imaginary. Still higher are the windows 
of the clerestory, with stained glass, sadly damaged by 
a powder explosion across the Tiber in 1891. 

At the end of the nave, on either side, by the great 
Ionic columns, stand colossal statues of Sts. Peter and 
Paul. Above are the mosaics of the triumphal arch, 
but they have suffered from several restorations. In 
the centre is the head of Christ, in a great nimbus, with 
the four beasts of the Revelation, two angels, and the 
four-and-twenty elders. Below, on either hand, single 
figures,—the Apostles Peter and Paul. 

The inscription couples the name of Placidia, the sister 
of Honorius, herself an empress for a short time, with 
that of Pope Leo the Great (440-461),—the pope who 
made peace with Attila and his Huns, and protected 
Rome and the tombs of the Apostles from destruction 
at the hands of the Vandals. In the tribune, dim in 
the distance, are more mosaics, but mediaeval, of the 
thirteenth century. 

A coffered ceiling, rich with gilding, has replaced the 
open timbers of the old basilica. The marble floor is 
usually polished like a mirror, reflecting the soft gray 
of the columns. Since the flood of 1900, however, when 
water stood upon the floor of the church to a height 
still plainly marked upon the columns, the former lustre 
of these marble slabs has never been restored. 

If St. Paul’s had had to be rebuilt in the twentieth 
century instead of the nineteenth, there would have been 
a closer adherence to the details of the old basilica, and 
we should have had a still more perfect restoration of 
a great Christian church, such as could be built within 
a century after the triumph of the faith over paganism. 
On the other hand, if the work of rebuilding had fallen 
to the eighteenth century, the result would have been 

201 


No. 57 


ITALY 


Map 


massive white piers instead of columns, and extravagant 
decoration, like that at the Lateran.* The sixteenth and 
seventeenth centuries would have produced something 
after the fashion of St. Peter’s, f It is an instructive 
contrast to compare the taste and methods of the suc¬ 
cessive centuries. The pure basilica-form, with row 
upon row of columns, has never been more appreciated 
than at present. From this broad nave we may gain 
some idea of Trajan’s basilica%,—only replacing the 
arches over the columns by flat entablatures, and erect¬ 
ing another row of columns upon these, before reaching 
the clerestory. One cannot wonder that the civil 
basilica was so closely imitated by the Christian. 

From the church we pass to the adjoining buildings 
of the former convent and the cloisters. 

57. The Cloisters , St. Paul’s-outside-the-Walls. 

Through these quaint twisted columns we look into a 
square garden in the centre of the cloisters. It is a pic¬ 
ture of meditative seclusion. The world of sights and 
sightseers seems to have been left far behind. AVe 
appear suddenly to have been transported to a peaceful 
cloister-garden in some old convent, far from the world 
and its distractions. It is a place for contemplation, 
for silence, for a quiet walk around and through this se¬ 
cluded flower-garden,—if not to meditate upon our sins, 
at least to reflect upon the changes through which the 
world without has passed, during all these centuries 
since the monks adorned their retreat with such loving 
care. Here, at least, they could feel secure from the 


* See No. 43. 
t See No. 24. 
t See No. 52. 


202 



8 


ROME 


No. 57 


vanities of the world. More than once they were rudely 
awakened by the presence of a besieging army; and, 
worse than all, they were obliged to stand by and see 
their great church—one of the chief shrines of Christen¬ 
dom—burned to the ground on that summer’s night in 
1823. They must have thought the world about to 
come to an end; and the next month the Pope died,—a 
pope (Pius VII) who had been one of their own number, 
living for many years in this very convent. He had 
been accounted by them almost a martyr, imprisoned 
for five years by Napoleon. Often, as a prisoner and 
exile at Fontainebleau, he had pined, we may well be¬ 
lieve, for these cloisters and the peaceful life of a Bene¬ 
dictine monk. 

Now no future popes are preparing themselves in this 
seclusion, to do battle for the Church against the powers 
of the world. No studious Benedictine is to be seen 
copying a Virgil or a Horace, or illuminating some 
beautiful missal. The monks, and their studies with 
them, have gone. The government is in possession, and 
a worldly custodian conducts us over ground which still 
seems sacred. Certainly this spot is fondly remem¬ 
bered by all visitors to Rome, and in their memories it 
retains something of its old-time sanctity. 

It is rare to find anything in Rome which belongs ex¬ 
clusively to any one age. Most of the churches even 
have old Roman columns; modern buildings often imi¬ 
tate the ancient, or are built out of ancient materials'; 
even the ruins themselves are a composite of several 
different centuries. But here at last we have the work 
of a single period,—an age in which there was a revival 
of the decorative arts. After a long period of unpro¬ 
ductiveness, Rome was again becoming a centre, not 
for artists of a high order of inspiration—there were 

203 


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Maps 


none—but for clever workmen, who knew how to cut 
up, and fit, and polish, the endless fragments of marble 
and porphyry, and other valuable materials, all about 
them. Without imitating ancient models, they devel¬ 
oped a style of their own, making use not only of the 
old materials, of which we were speaking, but also of 
bits of colored and gilded glass. By this method they 
inlaid brilliant patterns in slabs of white marble, adorned 
altars, pulpits, and thrones, balustrades and stairs, or 
even the walls and floors of churches, in the same 
manner. The effect of the bright geometrical patterns 
in glass-mosaic was especially admired. It was this 
method which they applied to these spiral columns on 
our right. Those deep channels, rough at the bottom, 
were all filled with glistening mosaics, flush with the 
surface of the column in the first case, or retiring within 
the moulded spiral of the second. Exposure to the 
weather has deprived them of every bit of this orna¬ 
ment. 

Looking through the columns, however, we see a 
broad frieze above the small arches of the further side. 
Here the inlays are fairly well preserved, and the pattern 
is a favorite one in this Cosmato work. For a family of 
Cosmati, artists in this direction in the thirteenth cen¬ 
tury, has given its name to this kind of decoration. It 
was also practised in Southern Italy and in Sicily, 
where the most magnificent examples are to be found. 
Below the frieze runs a long mosaic inscription. The 
date is thus known to be somewhere in the first half 
of the thirteenth century. In decorative work of this 
kind Rome was once far richer than now. The destruc¬ 
tion of the old St. Peter’s, the modernizing of so many 
churches, led to the ruthless destruction of many such 
beautiful works, simply because they belonged to the 
204 


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No. 58 


middle ages. Those that remain are at length appre¬ 
ciated once more, since we have learned to take broader 
views, and to recognize the merits of many things 
formerly despised. The mediaeval Rome had its own 
charms,—defiant of classical tradition, but still worthy 
of study. Among them all are few things to be com¬ 
pared with the cloister-courts of St. Paul’s and the 
Lateran. 

AN AFTERNOON IN THE CAMPAGNA 

Long before we reach the walls of the city we find 
ourselves following the line of the Appian Way. An¬ 
ciently the gate (Porta Capena) was not far beyond the 
southern angle of the Palatine. But the old wall of 
Servius had long been outgrown before there was any 
thought of a wider circle of fortifications. And when 
Aurelian built his walls (275 A. D.) the new gate, Porta 
Appia (now S. Sebastiano),* was fully three-quarters of 
a mile beyond the ancient Porta Capena , from which the 
distances still continued to be measured. Along this 
part of the Appian Way, within the Walls of Aurelian, 
Caracalla built the great Baths which bear his name, 
near the spot where the Latin Way parted company 
from the Appian. 

5 8 . The Baths of Caracalla. 

Of these vast ruins the first impression—and the last— 
is of their immensity. Though robbed of nearly all 
their lavish decorations they are still one of the marvels 
of Rome. Bare masses of concrete, faced as a rule with 
brick, they show scarcely a sign of architectural finish. 


* See No. 59. 


205 



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Map 


Perhaps for that very reason they are more impressive, 
like the gigantic skeleton of some prehistoric creature. 

We are standing in the Frigidarium, and looking 
through lofty arches, across a hall of similar shape and 
dimensions, the Tepidarium, to other rooms beyond. 
In that direction lies the Calidarium, a great dome, 
now fallen. These were the three principal features of 
every Roman bathing establishment, but the large 
Thermos were provided with a bewildering series of 
halls and rooms of every size and shape, for rubbing and 
anointing, for the care of the bathers’ clothes, etc., be¬ 
sides rooms for every variety of exercise; finally * a 
garden and an outer circuit of buildings, a stadium, a 
reservoir, and countless other features. Bathing had 
ceased to be a simple function, and had associated with 
it every form of amusement and pastime. The Baths 
thus became great gathering-places. One begins to 
comprehend the scale of these buildings (more than 
seven hundred feet long) in view of the crowds to be 
accommodated. It was said that these Baths of Cara- 
calla provided for sixteen hundred bathers at the same 
time; those of Diocletian, which were still more enor¬ 
mous, for twice that number. 

The Frigidarium, or Cold Bath, was one great swim¬ 
ming-tank, some four feet deep, one hundred and 
seventy feet long, and above eighty feet wide. Oppo¬ 
site us are the steps by which one descended into the 
tank, which covered the whole of this great floor. The 
Tepidarium, or Tepid Bath, is reached by ascending 
those steps, and passing under that colossal archway. 
It is a hall of the same size and parallel to this one. A 
vaulted roof of great height has fallen. How the 
Frigidarium was roofed, has been a matter of contro¬ 
versy. Many have asserted that it was entirely open to 

206 


5 


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No. 58 


the sky, but if we can believe that the swimming-tank 
itself was uncovered—a thing very improbable—it is 
quite impossible to suppose that the artificial tempera¬ 
ture of the adjoining Tepidarium was liable to change, 
from cold winds blowing through these open arches. 
The heating arrangements of the Baths of Caracalla 
must have been ruinous enough in their consumption of 
wood, without wasting the heat in any such reckless 
manner. In the pier directly in front of us we see a 
great cavity high up from the ground, marking the place 
of a vanished capital, which rested upon a tall shaft, 
pretending, at least, to do its duty in the support of 
the roof. But there seem to be no traces of vaulting- 
above. There appears, then, to be reason for the 
belief that the roof of this great hall was flat,—a mass 
of concrete of the lightest volcanic materials, hung from 
bronze trusses above. Such a ceiling of great span is 
described in a biography of Caracalla, and this seems to 
have been the hall that is meant. Certainly there are 
abundant evidences of bold construction on all sides. 
The great dome of the Calidarium, or the Hot Bath—we 
can see in the distance, under this arch on the right, a 
small part of one of its piers—was about one hundred 
and twenty-five feet in diameter, and in height far sur¬ 
passed the dome of the Pantheon.* 

The usual order seems to have been to begin with the 
Tepidarium, and to end the bath proper with a plunge 
into the cold swimming-tank, but the individual whim 
could be suited to any conceivable extent. Undoubted¬ 
ly these massive vaults secured an equable temperature, 
so that it might have been said of Caracalla’s Baths, 
as of St. Peter’s to-dav,—that they had a climate of their 
own. 


* See No. 45. 


207 



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In the time of their construction these Baths fall 
about a century after the Pantheon of Hadrian, and a 
century before the Basilica of Constantine.* Begun by 
Caracalla about 212 A. D., they were completed, per¬ 
haps about 230, by Alexander Severus. Adorned with 
the greatest extravagance in marbles and mosaics—the 
latter even upon the ceilings, as became customary later 
in Christian churches—they also contained a collection 
of works of Greek art which has furnished many speci¬ 
mens to the museums. It was here that the Farnese 
Bull and the Herculesf were found in the sixteenth cen¬ 
tury. But such finds have ceased, so thoroughly have 
the ruins been ransacked. The charm of the Baths of 
Caracalla now consists in the picturesqueness of these 
red and brown masses against the sky, and in their im¬ 
pressive scale. It is once more the Roman type,— 
solid, ponderous, indestructible. 

Not far beyond the Baths of Caracalla we pass the 
Tomb of the Scipios; but careless excavations in 1780 
did much to ruin this underground tomb of the most 
famous of republican families, and little remains now 
to attract the visitor. The road runs between high 
garden-walls, after the aggravating custom of the roads 
about Rome,—in this case even within the walls of the 
city. At length we reach the gate. 

59. Gate of St . Sebastian, Appian Way. 

And still the Appian Way, once proudly named the 
“ Queen of Roads,” is ignominiously imprisoned by the 
walls of gardens and vineyards. The gate is the old 
Porta Appia, which by and by forgot the old censor— 


* See No. 34. 
t See Nos. 6 and 7. 


208 



5,8 


ROME 


No. 59 


who had made his Appian Road nearly six hundred 
years before the gate was built—and took to itself the 
name of a Christian saint, whose basilica stands some 
distance beyond the walls. This is the finest of the 
gates in the whole circuit of Aurelian’s Walls, but the 
original gate of Aurelian was completely rebuilt by 
Honorius in the first years of the fifth centurj^. The 
lower part of the gate—its first story—is faced with 
marble. None of the other gates was so adorned. But 
the proud preeminence of the Appian Way, and the 
presence of a neglected pagan temple near at hand, led 
Honorius to deck a part of his gate in marble. The 
second story is in concrete faced with brick, richly col¬ 
ored by exposure to a southern sun. Directly over 
the archway we can make out traces of five small win¬ 
dows, long ago bricked up. Without them the gate 
ma)' be more capable of defense, but we should be glad 
to have them, to relieve this expanse of blank wall. 
With the third story, also constructed of the same ma¬ 
terial, the towers change from the square form to the 
round, and arched windows in two stories look out into 
the Campagna. So often patched and repaired, these 
old towers seem to tell of many sieges, of much anxious 
watching for the approach of an enemy from the south. 
And they seem to belong to the mediaeval history of 
Rome rather than to the Roman period. If we looked 
for some striking architecture of the imperial age, to 
adorn this chief gate of the city, we are disappointed. 
It is emphatically the age of Honorius which is repre¬ 
sented,—a time of hasty building, largely out of older 
materials, to ward off the dreaded danger of capture at 
the hands of the Goths. And the new gates and re¬ 
paired walls had been completed only about eight years, 
when the Goths did come with Alaric. A generation 

209 


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Maps 


later it was the Vandals. And then, in the sixth cen¬ 
tury, and the reign of Justinian, siege after siege put 
these towers and walls to a severe test. 

For the walls, however, we need to go back to the 
reign of Aurelian in the third century (270-275). It 
was then that the fear of the German invaders made it 
necessary to enclose Rome with new walls. The old 
“ Walls of Servius Tullius ” had been outgrown even in 
the time of the Republic, and were fast disappearing in 
the time of Augustus. Secure in the sense of power, and 
the assurance that the Alps were her real walls, the 
city which even then called herself eternal had never 
thought of immediate defenses. And this lasted well 
into the third century. Then Aurelian built the walls 
which still bear his name, in a mighty circuit from the 
Bridge of St. Angelo to the Tiber again on the south. 
The walls which skirted the river have disappeared, but 
if we should turn to the left by that left-hand tower, 
follow the walls to the Tiber, beyond the gate of St. Paul, 
and then make the entire circuit of the existing walls, 
along the road which runs outside, we should have 
covered a distance of nine miles. And then there were 
the walls on the right bank, in Trastevere. 

On our right, where the trees overhang the wall of a 
garden, a roadside tavern now holds the place formerly 
occupied by the Temple of Mars, from which came those 
marble blocks. 

Looking past the donkey-cart, and under the arch¬ 
way, we see another arch,—the so-called Arch of Drusus, 
more probably of the time of Trajan, used by Caracalla 
to carry an aqueduct for the supply of his Baths. It 
resembles a triumphal arch. 

By this Appian Way—but not through this gate— 
many a Roman general had returned from the East to 

210 


ROME 


No. 60 


5, 8 

claim a triumph. And the very last triumph which 
Rome was destined to see was that of Honorius over 
the Goths, two years after he had completed these 
towers, and half a dozen years before Alaric was to turn 
the victories of Honorius into a mockery by capturing 
the city which had never submitted to a foreign enemy 
for eight hundred years. 

Leaving the Walls of Aurelian by this Gate of St. 
Sebastian, the Appian Way descends into a little valley, 
to the chapel called Domine Quo Vadis , which has re¬ 
cently acquired fame through the widely read romance 
of a Polish novelist. At this point the road becomes 
perfectly straight for several miles. We keep on be¬ 
tween jealous garden-walls, passing the Catacombs of 
St. Calixtus, the most frequented among the many 
Roman catacombs, at a distance of a mile and a quarter 
from the gate. Nearing the modernized basilica of 
St. Sebastian, we pause for the view. 

6 o. The Appian Way. 

Before us stretches the straight line of the famous old 
highway, descending, and then rising again, to lose itself 
from our view just beyond that great circular tomb on 
the left. It is the tomb of Csecilia Metella, and the 
best known of all the monuments dotted over the Cam- 
pagna. In form it recalls the Mausoleum of Hadrian*— 
a square base and then a circular tower. But the di¬ 
mensions arc more modest. The drum is, however, 
sixtv-five feet in diameter. Even in the distance we 
can see that the square concrete foundation has been 
robbed of its outer facing, while the drum is still clad 
in sun-burned travertine. The inscription simply states 


* See No. 47. 


211 



No. 60 


ITALY 


Map 


that it was “To Csecilia Metella, daughter of Quintus 
[Metellus] Crcticus, wife of Crassus.” Which Crassus 
was meant, it is not easy to say, but probably the elder 
son of the triumvir whose career came to an end with 
the great defeat at Carrhse, beyond the Euphrates, in 
53 B. C. At any rate the tomb belongs to the last age 
of the Republic, or the very beginning of the Empire. 
Its position, and the impregnable strength of its walls, 
made it inevitably a castle in the middle ages. To this 
time belong the battlements in brick. Other buildings 
were added to their stronghold by the same Caetani 
family, mainly in the thirteenth century, and more ruins 
to the right, across the road—among them a church— 
testify to the importance of this castle by the Appian 
Way. 

The eminence upon which the tomb stands must have 
made it conspicuous, even in days when the whole road 
was lined with tombs. It is the termination of a lava- 
stream, which had flowed down from the great volcanic 
region about Mount Alba, ten miles away. But that 
was in prehistoric times, and no tradition remains of 
this volcanic flow, which advanced so near to the site 
of the future Rome. 

This particular stretch of the road is uncommonly free 
from ruins, as if to leave Csecilia Metella’s tomb in all 
the more undisputed sway over the landscape. The ex¬ 
planation is, that this part of the road has never entirely 
ceased to be used, and tombs have often been destroyed 
for their materials or to clear the land. A little beyond 
we should come to the excavated portion of the road, 
where the series of tombs becomes almost unbroken, pre¬ 
served as they were by the accumulation of soil and 
rubbish, after the complete abandonment of the ancient 
highway. There are said to be no less than two hundred 
212 


8 


ROME 


No. fcO 


ruined tombs along this Appian Way, between the 
Baths of Caracalla and Albano, fourteen miles from 
the city. The present excavations extend to the 
eleventh milestone. A traveler from Naples approach¬ 
ing Rome in the time of Constantine, let us say, entered 
these files of tombs at about the fourteenth milestone, 
from the ancient Porta Capena in the Servian Wall. 
He must have been strangely impressed with this long 
and narrow suburb of the dead, through which one 
approached to the city of the living. If he had any 
interest in the historic past, he would not have failed 
to see the monuments and read the epitaphs of many 
of the greatest figures in Roman history, aside from the 
emperors. If a Christian, he would have reflected upon 
St. Paul's journey to Rome over the same narrow way, 
past the Forum of Appius and the Three Taverns. 
Even now the memories of the Appian Way are still 
sure to crowd in upon us, in a strange confusion of 
persons and events,—now the personal element, as in 
Horace's journey to Brundisium, and now the imper¬ 
sonal,—the marching out of Roman armies for conquest 
in the East, or their return in triumph with rich spoils 
and a picturesque train of captives; or the afternoon 
promenade of fashionable Rome, making its utmost dis¬ 
play of luxury. Above all, we cannot escape from the 
feeling that this slender thread of road bound the East 
and the West together. By it came all those influences— 
first from Greece, and then from Palestine—which were 
to change the very face of Rome, and through Rome 
of all the western world. One cannot imagine the 
Roman Empire without its highways, built with military 
directness, and bringing the most distant and most 
threatened province of the frontier into communication 
with the central authority. 

213 


No. 60 


ITALY 


Map 


Among; all those roads, the Appian had the foremost 
place in the date of its construction and in its 
importance, as the main artery, not only for the South, 
but for all the eastern provinces. Built as long ago as 
312 B. C. by the censor, Appius Claudius, it was the 
first of the Roman roads. War then in progress with 
the Samnites made the Appian Way a military ne¬ 
cessity. But in commerce as well, the relations between 
Rome and the region about Naples were daily growing 
closer. At first the road, as constructed by Appius, ex¬ 
tended to Capua only. Later it was continued over the 
Apennines and down the Adriatic coast to Brundisium 
(Brindisi), the gateway of the East. 

But to return to our immediate surroundings. We 
are in a region of catacombs, among them those of 
St. Sebastian, with the church of that saint, to the 
right. Opposite the church, on the other side of the 
road, is a cross borne upon a column, with the arms of 
Pius IX and an inscription upon the pedestal. The 
spot is often thronged with pilgrims, for St. Sebastian’s 
is one of the seven pilgrimage churches. And the Ap¬ 
pian Way is a favorite afternoon drive, not only for 
the tourists, but for the Romans as well. It has its 
own life even now, and, judging by the Babel of lan¬ 
guages one hears, it is still a life which belongs to all 
the world. 

By a cross-road, connecting the ancient highway with 
its modern successor, we prolong our excursion into the 
Campagna. Returning along the Appia Nuova, which 
will bring us back to the city by the Gate of St. John, 
at the Lateran, we find ourselves approaching a long line 
of aqueduct arches. 


214 


8 


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No. 61 


61. Ruins of the Claudian Aqueduct. 

It is the Aqua Claudia, striding across the plain. 
The hand of the barbarian and the tooth of time have 
left a sad ruin of this Aqueduct of Claudius. And yet, 
few things about Rome are more imposing. The lofty 
arches are borne by immense square piers of rough- 
hewn masonry in great blocks. In the whole course of 
the aqueduct there are nine miles of such arches, often 
broken by frequent gaps, as in this stretch, where it is 
seldom that one can find a dozen continuous arches. 
But a little further in the direction of the Alban Hills 
a long, unbroken series shows the arcade almost in its 
original condition. The water flowed in a rectangular 
channel, directly above the arches. In nearly every 
one of these fragments of the aqueduct we can dis¬ 
tinguish this channel, or specus, broken off by the fall 
of the next arches. At one or two points we can even 
see at least a suggestion of an upper channel. And in 
fact these arches bore not only the Claudia, but also 
another aqueduct, the Anio Novus, which met the former 
seven miles out, and ran the rest of the way upon the 
same arches. Both of these aqueducts had been begun 
by Caligula, and were completed by Claudius fourteen 
years later, in 52 A. D. The Claudian Aqueduct 
brought down water from the upper valley of the Anio, 
and traversed a distance of forty-five miles, until Do- 
mitian shortened its course somewhat by piercing a 
mountain near Tivoli with a tunnel three miles long. 
The sources of the upper aqueduct were in the same di¬ 
rection, but still further from the city. It was the 
Claudia that supplied the imperial palaces, and this 
was reputed the best water in Rome. Taken together, 
these two aqueducts furnished a much larger volume of 
water than is now consumed by the modern city with 

215 


No. 61 


ITALY 


Maps 


all its fountains. And yet, these are but two of the 
fourteen aqueducts which were in operation in the time 
of Diocletian, whereas the new capital of Italy contents 
itself with four, of which three are restorations of ancient 
aqueducts. 

Old Appius Claudius brought the first of these 
artificial streams into the city, and would have won 
fame by that innovation alone, had not the Appian 
Way been built in the same year, 312 B. C., to bring 
him a still greater celebrity. Before the first Punic 
War a second aqueduct on a much more ambitious scale 
had been carried down the valley of the Anio. This 
was completed in 269 B. C., and was later known as 
the Old Anio, Anio Vetus, to distinguish it from this 
one of Caligula and Claudius. Shortly after the Third 
Punic War another aqueduct, the Marcia, was added 
(144-140); and another, the Tcpula, in the time of the 
Gracchi (125). Agrippa, the minister of Augustus, 
added two, the Julia (33), and the Virgo (19). The 
last, as we have seen, was restored to supply the Foun¬ 
tain of Trevi.* But it is needless to go on with our enu¬ 
meration. The newest in the whole series was more 
than six hundred years later than the Appia. And one 
of the most serious blows to the declining Rome was 
the cutting of the aqueducts during the various sieges 
in the Gothic War in the first half of the sixth century. 
The prosperity and healthfulness of the whole plain of 
Rome, the Campagna, were intimately connected with 
this abundant supply of water, brought down mainly 
from the Sabine Mountains. 

The mountains which we see in the distance belong 
to the Alban group, and not to the Sabine. For the 
apparent direction of the aqueduct is deceptive, and in 

* See No. 50. 


216 



ROME 


No. 62 


8, 5 

its descent from the mountains of the Sabina it de¬ 
scribes a wide curve, in order to secure a more gradual 
descent, and hence the natural flow of a stream. Our 
road runs to Albano, near the foot of Mt. Alba, and 
brings the produce of the hill-villages to Rome, as the 
old Appian Way did in ancient times. It is mostly 
wine, and here is one of the wine-carts, with its pile of 
casks, neatly covered, and its quaint folding top, low 
down over the driver’s head. 

On our right are the great stone pines, which add 
largely to a view that draws many artists and amateur 
photographers to this point. The young trees are of 
very recent planting. Over their tops, and not far to 
the left of the road, lies the railway to Naples,—the true 
successor of the Appian Way in its larger office, as the 
link between Rome and the East. 

Driving in from the Campagna—never so beautiful 
as in this clear afternoon air, with the sharpest outlines 
of aqueduct and ruined tomb, and the roofs and domes 
of the city—we make our way over the Tiber to the 
Janiculum. By the gate at the top of the hill, the old 
Aurelian Gate, now Porta S. Pancrazio, we leave the 
city again, and soon reach the extensive grounds of one 
of the most beautiful of the villas about Rome. 

6e. The Villa Doria-Pamphili. 

From that green wilderness, the Campagna, with its 
crumbling reminders of the past, and its distant views 
of the mountains, we have transferred ourselves to a 
scene that is its perfect opposite. Here not one sign 
of wild nature; not one suggestion, at first, of the old 
Rome. Everything is trim and orderly to the last degree. 

217 


No. 62 


ITALY 


Map 


On the left is the casino of the villa, a square structure 
with flat roof and one higher central portion, com¬ 
manding a celebrated view, especially in the direction 
of St. Peter’s. Vases, statues, busts, reliefs, pilasters, 
terraces and staircases, all combine to produce the 
typical Italian villa of the seventeenth century. For 
it is to the middle of that century that the Villa Pam- 
phili belongs. Pope Innocent X (1644-55) glorified 
himself and his family by building this villa, and laying 
out its grounds, for one of his nephews. It soon be¬ 
comes an old story at Rome—this enrichment of the 
relatives of the pope—until one falls into the habit of 
assuming that this great palace, or that extensive villa, 
is there because two or three hundred years ago the 
favor of a pope was lavishly bestowed upon some mem¬ 
ber of his household, usually a nephew. If the main 
object was to preserve the family name by palaces and 
villas, which should be admired in later ages, long after 
the pope himself was dead, that object has usually been 
gained,—so much so, that most tourists in Rome recall 
the family names of the popes by thinking of the palace 
or villa,—the Farnese, Borghese, Ludovisi, Barberini, 
or this Pamphili. But with the eighteenth century 
customs changed. The old charge of nepotism has 
been so constantly before the mind of all the popes in 
the last two centuries that they have seldom enriched 
their families with villas or palaces, or, in fact, in 
any other way. The recent popes have guarded 
most diligently against any possible accusation of that 
kind. They no longer build. At most they restore 
and repair. And whatever they do must be for the 
good of the many. Of course the changed conditions 
since 1870 have relieved the authorities at the Vatican 
of any responsibility for the adornment of a capital 

218 


5 


ROME 


No. 62 


which has passed into the hands of another. Certainly 
things are more honestly managed now than in the days 
of Innocent X, Pamphili, but while enjoying the garden 
which he made possible, we shall scarcely be able to 
find words of criticism for a system to which Rome 
owes so many of its show-places. 

Over this large basin and its small fountain in the 
shape of a fleur-de-lis (from the family arms), we look 
the length of the flower-garden, along these stretches 
of smooth gravel walk, and across bed after bed of 
flowers,—all laid out with the most mathematical ad¬ 
herence to a fixed pattern. It is a floral tapestry, 
outlined with close-trimmed borders of box, while con¬ 
trasted colors make the pattern more striking. One 
wonders, in an old garden like this, if the gardener is 
ever permitted to make the smallest change. Perhaps 
he may do so in the colors, but his liberty is closely re¬ 
stricted by tradition. There are azaleas in great pots, 
placed with perfect regularity. It is for this plant, and 
for its camellias, that this garden is chiefly celebrated. 
The tall palms seem—but are not—an afterthought. 
On the right is another terrace-wall, with sculptures 
and more of the large pots and their azaleas. We are 
reminded of the Pope’s Gardens* as we saw them from 
the dome of St. Peter’s, but here the carpeting is 
of a richer hue. It is an attempt to revive the style of 
gardening in vogue at the villas of ancient patricians, 
whose ideal in their gardens was to exclude most un¬ 
naturally everything natural. It was revived in the 
fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, under the influence 
of descriptions found in ancient writers,—since frescoes 
of Roman and Pompeian gardens, now so generally 
known, had not yet been unearthed. And the formal 


* See No. 49. 


219 



No. 63 


ITALY 


Maps 


garden, the Italian garden, still keeps its place in nearly 
every country,—maligned by the lovers of Nature un¬ 
constrained, but dear to those who love architectural 
effects in the immediate surroundings of the house, as 
well as in the house itself. The true Italian villa pro¬ 
vides for the more natural treatment also,* and of 
that part of the grounds we have a glimpse at the fur¬ 
ther end of the garden. We look over those tree-tops 
in the direction of Rome, but no tower or dome rises 
above them. It is perfect seclusion, the peace and re¬ 
tirement of a patrician villa, the retreat of the Doria 
family, which has long been one of the foremost among 
the princely houses of Italy. 

Returning within the Aurclian Gate, past another 
of the great fountains of Rome, the Acqua Paola, we 
soon find ourselves upon the brow of the Janiculum,— 
the broad terrace before a church of St. Peter, S. Pietro 
in Montorio. 

63. Rome from the Janiculum. 

At first the view seems to consist of nothing but fore¬ 
ground, and that the least interesting quarter of Rome, 
Trastevere, the ancient Trans Tiberim. Great formless 
buildings, with their plain roofs of tile, and here and 
there a church tower,—this seems to be the most that 
we can say of Trastevere, unless we add a touch of 
green garden here and there. Still it has a few land¬ 
marks. On the left is an old church of the twelfth 
century, S. Maria in Trastevere. A square Lombard 
bell-tower—like so many other church towers in Rome— 
rises above the tiles of the roof. The transept has a 


* See No. 49. 


220 



5, 9 


ROME 


No. 63 


roof which recalls that of the Sistine Chapel.* Straight 
before us is another quaint church tower with a low pyra¬ 
midal spire, projected against a mass of green in the 
distance. That is S. Crisogono, and if it has for us no 
importance of its own, it may serve as a guide in pointing 
out the distant objects beyond the Tiber. 

Certainly we have need to use every help, and to look 
closely, in order to make out the hills of Rome, in this 
distant view. For their flat tops make them difficult 
to distinguish, and their height is far from imposing. 
We are not long, however, in identifying the Capitoline 
Hill, over S. Maria. At the highest point is the tall 
tower of the Palace of the Senator.f The trees give 
the hill a distinct outline,—the gardens, that is, of the 
Caffarelli Palace, and then those of the German Hos¬ 
pital, by the Tarpeian Rock, to the right of an imposing 
building with two stories of loggias, looking down upon 
the houses at the foot of the hill. The building is the 
German Archaelogical Institute, the home of German 
learning in Rome. Again to the left of the Caffarelli 
gardens we see a part of the Capitoline Museum, over 
the campanile of S. Maria. 

The Palatine is marked out for us by a much more 
striking mass of trees, or rather two distinct masses, of 
which the first is intersected by the small spire of S. 
Crisogono. It is the wooded portion of the hill where 
the Palace of Tiberius stood,—the Farnese Gardens. 
The other mass of dark green is broken by the tall 
buildings of the convent which still bears the name of 
the Villa Mills. In the more open central part of the 
Palatine we can make out a few bits of the “ Palace of 
the Caesars,” that is, of the Palace of Domitian. One 


* See No. 23. 
t See No. 36. 


221 



No. 63 


ITALY 


tall piece of masonry, like a chimney, at an angle of 
that palace, we saw from the top of the Colosseum.* 
Of the amphitheatre itself we can see nothing more 
than the highest part of its brown walls over the tree- 
tops, just to the right of S. Crisogono. 

Between the Palatine and the Capitol, we recognize at 
once the dark arches of the Basilica of Constantine. 
The Forum, then, will lie behind the garden of" the 
German Hospital. 

Beyond these nearer hills the outlines of the further 
ones must be made out by their buildings. Thus the 
Esquiline extends behind the entire Capitoline, the 
Forum valley, and even to the nearest corner of the 
Palatine, as viewed from this point. Its chief land¬ 
mark is the basilica of S. Maria Maggiore. We see 
its slender tower and two domes to the left of the 
bell-tower of the Capitol. In the other direction we 
can only define the limits of the Esquiline by those tall 
houses which appear over the Basilica of Constantine, 
and come to an end a little beyond the square tower 
of S. Francesca, among the trees of the Farnese 
Gardens. But the distant part of the city over the 
“ Palace of the Caesars ” is still a part of the Esquiline. 

The Caelian shows us nothing distinctly but the 
Lateran,—first the open tower of the Lateran Palace, 
and then the turrets and colossal sculptures upon the 
fa£ade of the basilica itself. 

Behind the hills of Rome stretches the long line of 
the Sabine Mountains. 

As for the Tiber, it is lost to our view. The white 
line of the embankment, however, can be followed over 
the roof of S. Maria in Trastevere. And the situation 
of the Island can be fixed by the low tower (St. Bar- 


* See No. 39. 


222 



5, 9, 1 


ROME 


No. 63 


tholomew’s) appearing just below the Basilica of Con¬ 
stantine. 

On the whole we arc disappointed to see how incon¬ 
spicuous are the hills,—the seven lordly hills, as Mar¬ 
tial calls them in a description of a villa some¬ 
where upon this long ridge, and looking across the 
Tiber to the ancient city. The lordliness of which the 
Spanish poet spoke was not that bestowed by Nature, 
but that which ruled the world for the domina Roma. 

In bidding farewell to the city of the centuries we 
find these seven hills leave with us an impression not 
unlike that which we have gathered in our study of its 
monuments,—a few conspicuous names, and then an 
indistinguishable and almost impersonal mass of men 
who served their city, and together wrought great things 
both for the city and the world, while in the distance 
their particular achievements are as hard to define and 
separate from the work of other men and other times, 
as are the limits of those hills over there,—or the blue 
Sabine Mountains on the horizon, or the white clouds 
above them. And in a wider sense we have found the 
same continuity in all the later history, down to our 
own time,—that it may be divided for one purpose or 
another, but in reality is as unbroken as that line which 
carries the eye from the Capitol to the Lateran. 

PERUGIA 

The railway from Rome to Perugia follows the valley 
of the Tiber for fifty miles, and then along the Nera, 
the Roman Nar, past Narni, with its great ruined 
bridge of Augustus, on the Flaminian Way. A broad 
valley about Terni is followed by a long climb over the 
mountain ridge, in desolate regions. Then the pictur- 

223 


No. 64 


ITALY 


Map 


esque towns of Spoleto, Foligno, and Assisi; and we are 
once more in the valley of the Tiber, approaching the 
height upon which stands Perugia, 1,300 feet above the 
river. It is much like climbing a mountain, while the 
road describes wide curves, returning upon its own 
course. For the sake of the view we make a detour 
to the eastern side of the city, and look northward. 

64. Perugia, from below. 

Far above us the rounded crest is surmounted by the 
gray roofs and walls, by the unimpressive cathedral on 
our left, by the low towers of this ancient city. There 
are no domes or lofty campanili, as in many of these 
hill-top cities in Italy. Nature seems to have been 
altered as little as possible by man. In spite of all the 
centuries through which this strong position has been 
fortified and held by men, the irregular ridges have been 
little changed, and the plan of the city is as fantastic as 
can be imagined. It has been compared with the 
griffin which was adopted as the emblem of the city. 
But of these irregular arms and legs, reaching far down 
among the gardens and vinej^ards, we can form no ade¬ 
quate idea from our present point of view, except that 
as we stand here, just outside the walls, we seem to be 
looking away to another city, seen across green slopes, 
which rise clear to the walls. And yet it is but one 
town, stretching out along the lower ridges, or rising to 
the central mass upon the summit. In this way city 
and country seem to be locked in an inextricable em¬ 
brace. It is this that gives their peculiar charm to 
Perugia and Siena,—these sudden surprises, where 
one looks for the town, and finds the country, with 
orchards and gardens venturing up to the frowning 
wall. And here the effect is heightened by our eleva- 
224 


1 


PERUGIA 


No. 64 


tion above the plain of the Tiber, and the long slopes 
descending from the city on the heights to the beau¬ 
tiful plain far below. 

One arm of the city—only two or three streets be¬ 
tween almost parallel walls—runs off to our right. The 
ancient walls followed a smaller circuit and a less eccen¬ 
tric plan, but nothing of them remains to be seen on 
this side of the city. Augustus’s famous gate—a far 
more imposing work than any of the gates of Rome— 
is hidden from our view. Perusia, as it was called in 
Roman days, was already an ancient city in the time of 
Augustus. Built and peopled by the highly civilized 
Etruscans, while Rome was small and insignificant, Perusia 
was a place of importance, and one of the “twelve cities” 
of Etruria. The trade of the Tiber valley increased its 
prosperity in spite of this inconvenient situation, perched 
upon the top of a mountain. But in history its name is 
not prominent until long after all Etruria had become 
Roman, and the civil wars had convulsed Italy from 
one end to the other. It was the scene of a famous 
siege, resulting in its capture in 40 B. C. Lucius An- 
tonius, brother of Marcus, was besieged by Octavian 
(Augustus) and only surrendered after months of star¬ 
vation had destroyed thousands of the inhabitants. A 
dark day it was for Perusia, which was at once destroyed 
by fire; and a dark page in the record of Octavian, who 
endeavored to make some atonement by rebuilding the 
city and conferring upon it the name Augusta Perusia, 
which may still be read in large letters over the gate 
of which we were speaking. 

Through the middle ages Perugia frequently changed 
its masters, at last becoming subject to the popes in 
the fourteenth century. But the real interest which 
this old city has for the modern visitor is in the fact 

225 


No. 65 


ITALY 


Map 


that it became an independent centre in painting, with 
its own school of art,—a school which had its influence 
upon the Florentines, and so upon Italian art in general. 
In any other country it would seem incredible that this 
quaint city, standing guard upon its mountain-top, 
should ever produce anything of real and permanent im¬ 
portance. It is just because there were so many of these 
smaller centres, each rich in the works of its own artists, 
that we are obliged to leave the beaten track, to seek out 
at least one such city. And we shall not regret our choice 
in selecting Perugia, in its Umbrian landscape, with the 
distant mountains,—some of the highest peaks of the 
Apennines. 

Once within the walls of Perugia we find our way up 
to the cathedral and the town-hall. 

65 . Palazzo del Municipio, 

Standing here upon the terrace of the barn-like, un¬ 
finished cathedral, we look across the principal square 
of the city to the town-hall. Unlike the municipal 
palaces of Siena or Florence,* it has no tall tower, with 
frowning battlements rising to a great height above the 
city. This type of belfry is certainly far less imposing. 
The palace itself is an excellent example of the Gothic 
town-hall of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries,— 
square and massive, rugged in the simplicity of its 
main lines, severe in its lower arches, but light and grace¬ 
ful in the slender columns and tracery of the upper 
windows. Above are heavy battlements, recently re¬ 
stored. 

The principal front is towards the street, the Corso 
Vannucci; the more picturesque fagade confronts the 


♦See No. 67. 


226 



I 


PERUGIA 


No. 65 


cathedral. Here broad, curving steps ascend to a lofty- 
pointed doorway, beneath a bronze lion and griffin, 
while another flight climbs to a terrace supported on 
columns, and gives access to the palace at a still higher 
level. Below the lion and the griffin we see chains cap¬ 
tured in warfare with Siena. 

On the side towards the Corso is another portal, with 
a sculptured round arch, but it scarcely rivals this en¬ 
trance facing the cathedral. The upper story of the 
palace is the picture gallery, containing many paintings 
by the masters of the local school. Foremost among 
these were Perugino (Vannucci, died 1524) and Pintu- 
ricchio (died 1513), of whom the former was the master 
of Raphael, who studied here and painted his first 
fresco in a church in Perugia. 

The next building down the Corso, beyond the town- 
hall, contains one of the most beautiful rooms in Italy, 
the small hall of the Chamber of Commerce, decorated 
with a celebrated series of frescoes by the hand of 
Perugino, whose name has been given to the street. 

On our right in the piazza of the cathedral is a large 
fountain, dating from the latter part of the thirteenth 
century. In the water of the lowest basin stand columns 
supporting the second basin, out of which rises a single 
shaft to sustain the uppermost basin, and out of the 
last spring the sculptures,—three water-nymphs. The 
adornment is in the best mediaeval style, the figures 
and reliefs being the work of celebrated sculptors 
from Pisa and Florence, among them Arnolfo di Cam¬ 
bio, whose work we saw in the tabernacle of St. PauFs- 
outside-the-Walls, at Rome,* and whom we shall 
meet again in the cathedral of Florence, of which he 
was the architect. Behind the fountain stands the 


* See No. 56. 


227 



No. 65 


ITALY 


Maps 


Episcopal Palace, occupied years ago by Pope Leo XIII, 
when archbishop of Perugia. 

The impression of this square is almost completely 
mediaeval, and we seem to have left the domain of 
Rome, to enter a region in which the influence of 
Florence was supreme in everything which had to do 
with the outward expression of the life of the time. 

There have been more stirring scenes in this old 
piazza than we have before us this morning. And yet, 
the most of the life that we see is very little changed 
from the times of Perugino. Donkey-carts and ox-carts 
have not altered their shapes, nor these Umbrian oxen 
their ways, since the days when Arnolfo was working 
upon the fountain. Costumes we should need to change, 
and a cab or two would have to be eliminated, if we 
wished to call up a picture of the olden time. Nowhere 
is it easier to imagine the life and ways of a picturesque 
past than in the public square of a quaint old city, 
especially if it stands apart from modern improvements, 
and seems to be brooding over its ancient memories, 
of more stirring times when every city had an individu¬ 
ality of its own, and patriotism meant no vague ab¬ 
straction, but devotion to the welfare and independence 
of the town in which one was born. It was an intensely 
local spirit, tangibly embodied for us in such buildings 
as these about the public square of Perugia. 

In journeying from Perugia to Florence we skirt the 
beautiful Lake Trasumennus and the shore which wit¬ 
nessed one of Hannibal's famous victories over the 
Romans in 217 B. C. Then past the lofty Cortona, 
and Arezzo (Arretium), both important cities of the 
old Etruscans, and finally down the Arno valley to 
Florence. 


228 


1 , 10 


FLORENCE 

The history of Florence begins with the ancient Etrus¬ 
cans, and their lofty city of Fiesulae, the modern Fiesole, 
upon the height above Florence. But the city in the 
plain, on the banks of the Arno, was not built until 
the first century before Christ, and in spite of its favored 
situation for the growth of a commercial city, it never 
attained to any prominence in Roman times, and almost 
disappears from view in the early middle ages, only to 
reappear long after Pisa had become a great power. 
By this time the older Fiesole had been destroyed, and 
its inhabitants removed to Florence in 1125. From 
that time on, the rise of the Florentines was remarkably 
rapid. With the opening of the thirteenth century, the 
development of their commerce had given them the 
foremost place in Italy. The government was a re¬ 
public, but mainly in the hands of the nobles. The 
Podesta served as an arbiter in the inveterate feuds 
among the nobles, and the strife of the par¬ 
ties, the Guelphs and the Ghibellines, of whom the 
former supported the cause of the pope, while the latter 
were partisans of the emperor. But with the middle 
of the thirteenth century came a change of govern¬ 
ment, and a military leader chosen by the people,—a 
Capitano del Popolo. True to the commercial founda¬ 
tion upon which the prosperity of Florence rested, the 
guilds assumed a more and more important part in the 
management of affairs. In the time of Dante the heads 
of the seven leading guilds were the real rulers of Flor¬ 
ence,—the Priori, presided over by the Gonfaloniere. 
But the strife of the Whites and the Blacks did much to 
endanger the safety of the city. The popular party 
was finally headed by a wealthy family of bankers, the 
229 


ITALY 


Map 


Medici, who at last conquered the aristocratic opposi¬ 
tion. With Cosimo de’ Medici a new period for Florence 
began. The republican government had not been for¬ 
mally destroyed, but practically the Medici ruled as 
though they were lords of Florence. It was the first 
age of the Renaissance. The revived study of Greek 
and Latin produced a complete revolution in education, 
and the scholars, or Humanists, as they were called, 
were among the most respected and influential men of 
the time. The collecting of manuscripts became almost 
a mania; and works of ancient art, coins and gems and 
statues and reliefs, were gathered together by almost 
every man who pretended to have the least interest in 
the new movement. Gothic forms were abandoned in 
favor of the classical, or what were supposed to be 
Roman. Ruins at Rome and elsewhere were diligently 
studied by Florentine artists, and the fruit of their 
studies began to be clearly seen when Brunelleschi 
raised the dome of the cathedral. Painting and sculp¬ 
ture received a new impulse, and were encouraged by 
the princely patronage of Cosimo. Not since the best 
days of ancient Athens had such a time of intellectual 
and artistic activity been seen. 

Cosimo died in 1464, but his son, Piero, succeeded 
him, and after five years his grandson, Lorenzo the 
Magnificent (1469-1492). The patronage of art and 
letters was thus continued, for Lorenzo was himself a 
man of rare gifts. Ancient arts and tastes were to be 
deliberately revived, and all that was mediaeval to be 
thrust into the background, always excepting their 
greatest poet, Dante. Painting had by this time reached 
a very high development, and Florence was recognized 
as the central school in that art. Certainly no history 
230 


10 


FLORENCE 


No. 66 


of Florence can pass over the names of the painters or 
the sculptors, or the masters in architecture. 

The enlightened tyranny of the Medici came to an 
end soon after the death of Lorenzo, with the restoration 
of a republic; but the King of France, Charles VIII, 
soon interfered. Then came the reformer, Savonarola, 
who made heroic efforts to renew the life of Florence 
in every possible direction, and was rewarded by death 
at the stake in the Piazza della Signoria in 1498. A 
period of confusion followed, but at length the Medici 
regained the upper hand with the aid of the Emperor 
Charles V, and in 1530 their power was definitely estab¬ 
lished in the hands of Alessandro, the first duke, and 
then of another Cosimo. Amid all the confusion the 
painters and other artists of the Florentine school had 
not ceased to carry on the work of the Renaissance, 
which reached its culmination in Raphael and 
Michael Angelo, many of whose best works were exe¬ 
cuted at Rome. 

The long line of the grand-dukes adds little to the 
significant history of Florence. Medici blood lasted on 
until 1737. In art the great creative movement had 
come to an end before 1600. Austrian rule followed the 
extinction of the Medici, and grand-dukes of the house 
of Lorraine reigned (with the interruption of the Na¬ 
poleonic times) down to 1859, when the last of their 
number, Leopold II, was banished, that Tuscany might 
be united to the new kingdom of Italy. 

66 . Giotto’s Tower and the Cathedral. 

Nothing could be more unmistakably Florentine 
than this vista,—the campanile soaring above the house¬ 
tops at the end of the street, the great dome of the cathe- 

231 


No. 66 


ITALY 


Map 


dral beyond. Few buildings in the world are so famil¬ 
iarly known wherever books are read and pictures 
studied. It Is almost impossible to conceive of any one 
coming to Florence without the impression of those 
outlines indelibly written upon his memory years before 
the opportunity of seeing the originals came to him. 
They cannot possibly appear strange, no matter what 
the point of view from which they are first seen. Al¬ 
though we are eager to see more of the cathedral, it is 
worth our while to linger here to study Giotto’s Tower 
in its full height; and while we have but a part of the 
dome and an angle of the facade, the latter is a very 
recent addition, and the former shows at least the 
sweeping curves of its mighty ribs, and the massive, yet 
graceful, lantern upon the summit. 

But the street scene before us, as we view it from our 
window, claims its share of attention, even before we 
have thought of a closer look at the famous bell-tower. 

It is the familiar architecture of the streets of Florence,_ 

not changed even by the intrusion of one of the most 
enterprising of American insurance companies, or the 
aavent of the trolley-car. The buildings themselves 
are sober and restrained, pale reflections, at least, of pal¬ 
aces by the masters of the Renaissance. That on our 
left is still more I* lorentine, in its greater severity, and 
in the deep shadows cast by wide-projecting eaves. 
This is the palace of the archbishop. Beyond it, but 
invisible to us, lies the baptistery, of the famous bronze 
doors, opposite the facade of the cathedral. 

St. Mary of the Flower—the cathedral, or duomo_ 

dates from the time of Dante, but has been altered many 
times. The architect was Arnolfo di Cambio, but the 
painter Giotto was also entrusted with the work for a 
time, long after the death of Arnolfo. Although begun 

232 


10 


FLORENCE 


No. 66 


in 1294, the church still remains incomplete. Not 
many years ago the front was an almost blank wall of 
brick, contrasting strangely with the rich marble decor¬ 
ations, both of the tower and of the rest of the cathedral. 
The old facade of Giotto had been removed and never 
replaced. At last the work has been carried out from 
a modern design, and finished in 1887. But time has 
still to harmonize the new with the old. At present 
the uniform whiteness of the marble cannot compare 
with the soberer and more varied tints which centuries 
of exposure have given to the marbles of the cam¬ 
panile. 

If Dante praised the beauty of the baptistery, one can 
but wonder what he would have said of the dome, begun 
in 1420, a hundred years after he. had died in exile at 
Ravenna by the Adriatic. The dome was the first 
great work of the Renaissance in architecture. Its 
author, Brunelleschi, had studied the Roman ruins with 
the utmost devotion, and equipped by these studies he 
alone was prepared to attempt the construction of a 
dome in masonry over the crossing of the nave and the 
transepts. By keeping to the Gothic pointed arch, 
and employing huge ribs, he was able to rear this great 
cupola, bearing a massive stone lantern upon its crown. 
The total height of the dome is 352 feet and its internal 
diameter 138i feet,—a few inches more than the dome 
of St. Peter’s. Since the days of Diocletian and Con¬ 
stantine no such construction had been attempted. It 
was both in boldness and in beauty one of the greatest 
achievements of Italian architecture in the fifteenth 
century. Brunelleschi’s dome led in time to Michael 
Angelo’s, in the second half of the sixteenth century, 
and between these two domes lies the whole history of 
Renaissance architecture in Italy. 

233 


No. 66 


ITALY 


Map 


But while we are speaking of the cathedral and its 
surroundings, the eye is constantly wandering back to 
the perfect tower of Giotto, begun in 1334. It stands 
apart from the church, separated by a narrow space 
from the south wall, but in line with the fagade. Noth¬ 
ing could be simpler than the outlines of the tower, 
rising in five stories, marked by mouldings, to a height 
of 292 feet. It -was Giotto’s intention to place a spire 
upon the top, but this was never carried out by his 
successors, nor will it be. The two lowest stories are 
without windows, except for narrow gratings, but 
divided into bands and panels by the use of colored 
marbles and inlay, and enriched with reliefs and statues. 
The third and fourth stories have traceried windows, 
with delicate spiral columns. And then above, in the 
fifth story, are the great windows in the same style, but 
far more elaborate. A painter in every instinct, Giotto 
adorned his tower with incrusted ornament from top to 
bottom. And the result, often dubious for the ex¬ 
terior of buildings, especially if they be large, like the 
cathedral, is beyond all praise in the case of this grace¬ 
ful tower. One does not need to have read Ruskin, in 
order to recognize in Giotto’s Tower one of the rarest 
and purest works of genius in the world. Fresh from 
Rome and her mighty works, we are forced at once to 
to admit that this mediaeval man had original gifts 
which were not at the command of emperors who ran¬ 
sacked every province in search of talents,—and never 
found one great creative genius in pure architecture. 

Dost thou behold yonder tow’r so fair, whence the bells are 
resounding ? 

That by my rod and rule grew to the stars overhead.* 


* From Poliziano’s Latin epitaph of Giotto in the cathedral. 


234 



10 


FLORENCE 


No. 67 


A broad, straight street leads from the cathedral to 
the Piazza della Signoria, the public square before the 
town-hall. Once more we seek an elevated position, 
at the window of an upper story, if we would enjoy 
the best view of the square and its historic build¬ 
ings. 


67. Palazzo Vecchio and Piazza della Signoria. 

Nothing could be more mediseval than this sombre 
town-hall. A square and solid mass, it seems built to 
resist the attacks of men, as well as the destroying 
powers of time. The wall rises sheer out of the piazza, 
like a great cliff in its rock-faced masonry, pierced with 
the fewest possible openings near the ground. Even 
the principal entrance, on the right, is a narrow arch¬ 
way. And the few small windows on the ground-floor 
are as high as possible, and could readily be barricaded. 
Above are the double windows of the first story, two 
pointed lights enclosed in a massive round arch. For 
the intermediate story, or mezzanine, there are barely 
port-holes, and then the windows of the second story 
repeat the motive of the lower. Over these upper 
windows project small arches upon brackets, or corbels. 
Then a gallery with round-arched openings, and not a 
trace of ornament to relieve its severity. Square 
battlements rise above the gallery, and finally the great 
tower, which seems to differ from all other towers in 
having no direct connection with the ground,—in having 
no more obvious support than its perch upon the top 
of the wall. If the wall itself were less like a natural 
cliff, we should constantly fear that the tower might 
sway, lose its balance, and crash down into the square. 
Should that ever happen, it would be a greater fall than 

235 


No. 67 


ITALY 


Map 


that of the campanile in Venice.* There is a fascination 
about this tower, poised, it seems, upon the battle¬ 
ments in the most reckless manner. The plain wall 
of the tower rising above the clock-face is not less than 
four feet beyond the line of the lower wall. And yet 
the builder did not hesitate to build on up to a giddy 
height, and then repeat his system of brackets and 
arches—pointed here—with a gallery above, crowned 
with notched battlements. Here the older tower 
ended. A couple of centuries later it was carried up 
still higher. Four massive round piers with sculptured 
capitals support arches and more battlements,—at last 
a pyramidal roof. The total height is over three 
hundred feet, or somewhat greater than that of Giotto’s 
tower. It would be difficult to imagine two towers so 
near together, and yet so different. That was a vision, 
caught and perpetuated by the imagination of an artist, 
who knew how to express both in painting and in stone 
the religious aspirations of the middle ages. This is 
less beautiful, but in its own way a not less perfect em¬ 
bodiment of that for which it stands,—the civic life 
of the mediieval Florence. Unimaginative as this 
gloomy building is, it recalls most vividly the days out 
of which it came. If its builder was no shepherd who 
dreamed dreams, he has left a structure which is ca¬ 
pable of calling forth the dreams of men of later ages. 
The architect was the same Arnolfo who planned the 
cathedral. Built in 1298, the Palazzo Vecchio was then 
known as the Palace of the Priors. These were the 
heads of the seven guilds, representing the chief trades. 
They constituted the Signoria, from which the square 
has its name. For them was erected the long platform 
extending across the front of the palace. At the left 


* See Nos. 79, 80. 


236 



10 


FLORENCE 


No. 67 


of the platform is the Marzocco, the emblem of the city, 
a sculptured lion in marble supporting a shield bearing 
the lily of Florence. The original lion is now in the 
Bargcllo*, but replaced here by a copy. To the left of 
the small Marzocco is a large fountain,with sculpture,— 
a Neptune and his steeds, with Tritons. It is of 
the sixteenth century, by Ammanati. The work of 
a far greater master, Michael Angelo, stood near the 
entrance of the palace until within a generation. This 
was the celebrated David, now in the Academy. A 
rival, Bandinelli, was the author of the group at the 
further side of the entrance. 

On the right are the huge arches of the Loggia dei 
Lanzi, sheltering the sculptures beneath. Through 
the arches we look into the narrow court of the Uffizi 
Palace, the work of Vasari. 

The square—this Piazza della Signoria —has seen 
much of the history of Florence written in blood. In 
every line the Palazzo Vecchio tells its tale of street 
violence, of assaults even upon the authorities of the 
city. The defensive side appears to be uppermost, at 
least while we are gazing at this castle, that met in 
every respect the requirements which Florence in its 
turbulence imposed upon the builders of its town-hall. 

But on the offensive side the old palace—or rather 
those who relied upon its strength—could strike a blow, 
and did strike many blows. Most famous among 
the executions which took place here in this square 
was that of the great reformer of morals and manners, 
Savonarola. As we learn from old pictures, he was 
burned at the stake, near the middle of the square, 
while a long scaffold had been built out from this nearer 
corner of the palace, and the stone platform by the en- 


* See No. 74. 


237 



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trance. It was the 23d of May, 1408,when the Dominican 
martyr was led out to execution with his brother and 
a friend. A rope was tightened about his neck, ex¬ 
tinguishing life just before the flames had reached his 
body. Not long after, the Church which had executed 
him as a heretic and corrupter of the Florentines, act¬ 
ually proposed to canonize him. And while he never 
became St. Savanarola, his memory has been honored 
by his order, the Dominicans, and by the world at large, 
as few saints of the calendar have been. 

Descending to the level of the piazza, we appreciate 
more than ever the strength and boldness of the Palazzo 
Vecchio and the grandeur of the great open loggia in 
the corner of the square. 

68 . Loggia dei Lanzi. 

The three mighty arches rest upon piers with mould¬ 
ings, bases, and sculptured capitals which strongly 
suggest a Gothic cathedral. Arnolfo’s piers in the 
duomo of Florence have been closely imitated, even to 
a kind of pedestal which separates the capital from the 
springing of the arch. But instead of the pointed arch 
which such piers would seem to demand, we have here 
round arches, simply moulded. It was seldom that the 
mediaeval architects who endeavored to construct 
buildings in the Gothic style, imported from France, 
could forget the round arch of earlier ages. The 
foreign style never wholly displaced earlier native 
methods, and for that reason it was an easy transition 
in a later day to the round-arched buildings of the 
Renaissance, in direct imitation of Roman remains. 
Here one might almost feel sure that the builders of 

238 


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this loggia had visited Rome, and had carried away 
with them an impression of the Basilica of Constantine, 
and its immense open arches*. But there is no trace of 
direct imitation of Roman forms. That was to come 
with the next century, the fifteenth. The whole effect 
of this open arcade is mediaeval, and yet how different 
from that of the Palazzo Vecchio! There all was for¬ 
bidding, here an open welcome to the cool shade of the 
arches; there the suggestion of incessant violence, here 
the evidence of a more peaceful society, in which pro¬ 
vision was made in a permanent fashion for pageants 
and occasions of state. Centuries might seem to lie 
between these two structures. Yet in reality the 
Palazzo Vecchio had stood little more than fifty years 
when it was planned to enclose the piazza with a vaulted 
arcade on an enormous scale. But the “black death” 
of 1348 had recently carried off thousands of the in¬ 
habitants; thus the great project was postponed for 
some twenty years, and then but a small part was ac¬ 
tually executed in 1376. The arches which were to 
have been carried around the square were reduced to 
these three in the corner nearest to the Palazzo, and 
what was intended for a portico of vast extent, became 
a loggia. 

It must be judged, therefore, as a fragment of a 
colossal whole, the rest of which never got beyond the 
dreams of the architects. But few fragments in the 
world are nobler, or more apparently complete in them¬ 
selves. The arches are fifty feet in height, and have 
a span of thirty-two feet. Between the arches, in the 
spandrils, are set Gothic panels with figures of the 
virtues in high relief, originally resplendent in color and 
a gold-mosaic background. A simple frieze, ornamented 


* See No. 34. 


239 



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with a few escutcheons, supports the cornice—here in 
the form of brackets, or corbels, sustaining small Gothic 
arches—and then a parapet of open work. A few words 
suffice to describe the features of the Loggia dei Lanzi, 
but the vigor of its forms, the harmony of the parts, 
and the effectiveness of its ornament, deserve the most 
careful study. Certainly civil architecture has seldom 
wrought a more perfect work in any age or country. 

Under the arches is an open-air sculpture gallery,— 
on the right a famous marble group representing the 
Rape of the Sabine Women, sculptured by Giovanni da 
Bologna, about the close of the Renaissance period 
(1583). In the corresponding situation under the left 
arch is a bronze Perseus with the head of Medusa, by 
Benvenuto Cellini (1553). Against the wall are ancient 
portrait statues, and almost in the centre, to the left 
of the Rape of the Sabine Women, is an antique group 
of Ajax with the body of Achilles, or as it is now ex¬ 
plained, Menelaus with the body of Patroclus. It must 
have been a celebrated group, since no less than six 
ancient copies of it are known. Of the lions by the steps one 
—that to the right—is ancient, the other a modern copy. 

If one could ever neglect the paintings in Florence, 
this Loggia dei Lanzi might be regarded as an epitome 
of its aspirations in art,—the noble freedom and grand 
proportions of the structure itself, the very best of the 
mediaeval; then the sculptures, the ancient, admired 
beyond their deserts by the artists of the Renaissance, 
and, in the forefront, the works of these later masters, 
filled with the spirit of the antique, and determined to 
produce works not less imperishable. 

Around the corner from the Loggia dei Lanzi we find 
ourselves in the long, narrow court of the Uffizi 
240 


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FLORENCE 


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Palace. It has a portico on either side and extends 
from the Palazzo Vecchio to the bank of the Arno. 
Climbing the long flights of stairs, we at last reach the 
level of the gallery, and its interminable corridor. 

69. Corridor of the Uffizi Gallery. 

At first there is no temptation to look at particular 
pictures, or to study any of the antique sculptures 
ranged along the walls. We seem to be lost in the 
magnificent distances of this long corridor, more than 
five hundred and thirty feet in length. The Vatican 
and its famous loggias and corridors are at once brought 
to mind, but there was nothing quite like this in its 
unbroken length. There is a pleasure in simply stroll¬ 
ing up and down, contented to postpone any serious 
employment of the mind with the treasures here dis¬ 
played, and to absorb all that comes to us from the 
mere suggestion of a palace of art, vast in its distances, 
and perfect in its order and arrangement. And every¬ 
thing is illuminated by this high light, like that of a 
studio, due to the fact that we are on the topmost story 
of a tall building. One would like for the moment to 
restore this corridor to its old estate as an open loggia, 
looking down into the deep narrow court below, or 
across to the similar loggia on the other side of the court. 
No Florentine palace was complete without its loggia, 
high above the street, enabling the occupants of the 
palace to live out of doors a large part of the year, 
even in the city. There is, however, no example on 
such a scale as this. But the requirements of palaces 
and public buildings are not those of a picture gal¬ 
lery. The protection of paintings and sculptures has 
required the glazing of the whole side towards the court. 

241 


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And then for the private palaces also fashions have 
changed, and one often sees the loggia of former times 
now enclosed in glass, even where the preservation of 
precious decorations by famous masters has not dictated 
the change, as was the case in the loggias of Raphael at 
the Vatican. 

The decorations here deserved protection from the 
weather, even though they are not of the golden age of 
painting in Italy. Great dark beams divide the ceiling 
into innumerable slightly vaulted compartments, and 
these are decorated with frescoes in the “ grotesque” 
style,—a method which owed its origin to the discovery 
of Roman frescoes in the Baths of Trajan in the time 
of Raphael. As the cavernous depths of those ruins 
resembled grottoes, the name “ grotesque ” came to 
refer to that particular style of decorative painting. 
It flourished especially among the pupils of Raphael. 
The painter in this case belonged to a later generation, 
living in the latter part of the sixteenth century, and his 
name, Poccetti, is, to say the least, obscure. The 
architect of these magnificent corridors was the painter- 
historian, Vasari, who wrote the lives of so many of the 
artists of the Renaissance. The date is between 1560 
and 1574. As though it were not enough for him to 
have produced one such gallery, another of equal length, 
and in all respects similar to this, lies just across the 
court, and at the further end a short arm connects the 
two. 

Ancient sculptures are here gathered in considerable 
numbers, but their total effect is not unlike that which 
we noticed in the Colonna Palace in Rome.* Few are 
really first-rate works, although there are many excel¬ 
lent busts of the Roman emperors, and any one who 


* See No. 51. 


242 



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FLORENCE 


No. 69 


studies the physiognomy of the Caesars may have excel¬ 
lent opportunities here to associate faces and features 
with the virtues and vices which chequered the history 
of the Empire. There are also many ancient sarcophagi 
sculptured in high relief, some of which served to inspire 
the artists of the Renaissance with their love for the 
antique. 

The paintings are largely of the earlier period, and 
include none of the more celebrated pictures in the 
collection. These are to be found in the rooms which 
adjoin the corridor on the left, and also on the other 
side of the court. The celebrated Tribuna is entered 
by a door two-thirds of the way down the corridor. 

Near this first door on our left—the entrance from 
the vestibule—is a quaint chair like that of Savonarola, 
in his cell at the convent of S. Marco. Other chairs of 
the same type are placed at intervals against the walls, 
among the sculptures. 

But it is time to begin our round of the pictures and 
statues,—and first down the corridor to the Tribuna. 
It is an octagonal room of moderate size, containing 
a selection from the most famous works in the entire 
Uffizi gallery. In the centre are a few ancient sculp¬ 
tures. 


70. Venus de’ Medici, Uflizi Gallery. 

The place of honor among the sculptures is given to 
the Venus,—a work once extravagantly admired, and 
still as widely known as many greater works of Greek 
sculpture. 

It is the sea-born Aphrodite, and her native element 
is indicated by the dolphin, ridden by a diminutive 
243 


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Eros, or Cupid, while another climbs his tail. She 
stands entirely nude, the body slightly bent, in an at¬ 
titude of shrinking, while breasts and lap are covered 
by the hands. The same shrinking is further expressed 
in the knees, drawn close together. The face looks 
away to the left, as though the rustle of a leaf, or the 
crackling of branches, had given the alarm of an ap¬ 
proaching intruder, still in the distance. We may 
imagine her to have been surprised at the bath, by the 
sea-shore. 

Unquestionably the motive of an Aphrodite over¬ 
taken while preparing for the bath was a favorite one 
with the Greek sculptors. It was Praxiteles, who lived 
in the fourth century before Christ, to whom this fa¬ 
miliar motive was usually ascribed. And his Aphro¬ 
dite of Cnidus, now in the Vatican—at least in an an¬ 
cient copy—was one of the most famous examples of 
the goddess disrobing herself for the bath, but in en¬ 
tire unconsciousness, with nothing to suggest the ap¬ 
pearance of an unwelcome observer. The older statues 
of Aphrodite had been robed, and one such, of great 
celebrity, was sculptured by Praxiteles. But the 
newer fashion preferred to represent the charms of the 
goddess, either partly revealed in the act of disrobing, or 
at last completely unveiled. It was a further step when 
all traces of a garment were removed, and there was 
no attribute—as a water-vase—to suggest the bath. 

In this case one might reject the supposition of a 
bath in the sea, and regard the dolphin merely as an in¬ 
dication of the element from which the goddess sprang. 
Thus explained, the nude would be accounted for by 
the aim of the sculptor to represent a divinity re¬ 
moved as much from the propriety as from the necessity 
of human clothes. Against this latter interpretation is 
244 


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the obvious humanity of the figure before us. The 
goddess does not appear with her divine power, or the 
serene consciousness of divine beauty. She is repre¬ 
sented in the tangible and human form of a fair woman, 
with a timidity which would ill become a goddess, and 
a human vanity which is not after all displeased that 
some human eye falls upon her; there is even a cer¬ 
tain coquetry, ready to take offence if that eye is im¬ 
mediately closed or withdrawn. 

Of this type of Aphrodite no less than twenty-eight 
different examples exist, among them the Capitoline 
Venus at Rome. In time, it is thought to belong to the 
first century, or the second half of the second century 
before Christ,—a period of a later bloom in Athenian 
sculpture, the so-called Attic Renaissance. A sculp¬ 
tor’s name, Kleomenes, is inscribed upon the base at the 
left, but this is believed to be a modern forgery of the 
sixteenth century, soon after the statue was discovered 
at Rome. 

Upon the walls, the painting to the right is Michael 
Angelo’s Holy Family, that upon the left is Raphael’s 
portrait of Julius II, the warrior-pope. 

Such is the Tribuna ,—a meeting-place of ancient 
Athens with Florence in its golden age. The sculptures, 
if not now ranked among the foremost works of Greek 
art, as was formerly the case, have still the Greek 
spirit, and were capable of inspiring the Florentine 
sculptors to produce works not inferior to them. And 
the painters too were under great obligations to the 
ancient sculptures, collected with such enthusiasm by 
amateurs, and destined to find their way at last into 
the great collection of the Medici family or of the popes. 
The contrast of the statue before us with the paintings 
upon the wall behind tells in briefest form the whole 
245 


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story of the Renaissance. Certainly Michael Angelo’s 
picture could never have been painted without a loving 
study of the antique sculptures. It is emphatically a 
sculptor’s painting, and the figure of the Virgin is plastic 
art projected upon a plane. 

To the left of the Venus de’ Medici stands a group, the 
celebrated Wrestlers. 

71 . The Wrestlers, Uflizi Gallery. 

Two muscular figures are putting forth their utmost 
strength in the final moment of the contest. The strug¬ 
gle is not yet over, but victory near at hand. One 
youth is bent double to the ground, not only by the 
weight of his antagonist, but still more by the skill with 
which the victor has contrived with his left arm to 
twist his opponent’s right, until he is forced to yield 
and bow himself to. the ground, to escape the disloca¬ 
tion of his shoulder. One more turn given to that 
straining arm, and it would be wrenched from the 
socket. The left arm of the vanquished is useless for 
offence, and can only delay the fall for a moment. Yet 
there is no sign of despair in that crouching form. The 
victor knows well the advantage he has gained, but 
is not betrayed into any false confidence. Every 
muscle is strained to the utmost, and the free right arm 
—almost suggestive of the boxer rather than the wrest¬ 
ler—is prepared for any sudden and unexpected move¬ 
ment of his opponent. In rhythm the right arm corre¬ 
sponds to the extended right leg, with the foot firmly 
planted upon the ground. The arm, it is true, is a 
restoration of the lost original, but the correctness of 
the restorer’s judgment, in this case at least, can scarcely 

246 


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No. 71 


be called in question. The heads had been broken off, 
and it has been asserted that these, while ancient, are 
not the original heads, but belonged to a larger group 
with the fragments of which this group—itself sadly 
injured—was discovered. It is generally believed, how¬ 
ever, that the heads are authentic. Any suspicion 
that they are not genuine, might be due to lack of skill 
in restoring them to their old positions. 

It was in Rome, and not far from the Lateran, that 
this group came to light in 1583. With it was dis¬ 
covered the famous series of Niobe and her children, 
now in another hall of this same gallery. After adorn¬ 
ing the Villa Medici on the Pincian at Rome for the 
best part of two centuries, they were all brought 
to Florence in 1775. The others came apparently from 
the pediment of some temple, and had a distinctly re¬ 
ligious motive. This group, on the other hand, exists 
for itself alone. It may have adorned some Greek 
gymnasium, for which sculptors had produced repre¬ 
sentations of the chief athletic contests,—a kind of 
subject which at a later time was much in demand for 
the Roman Baths. But while other similar works may 
have kept it company, this group requires nothing from 
them for its interpretation. It has no secrets to be 
fathomed, no hidden meaning lurking beneath these 
naked forms. We have before us just such a scene as 
might have been witnessed any day in a Greek palaestra. 
There is nothing to suggest a crowd of spectators, or 
a great prize to be striven for,—nothing theatrical, 
nothing for show. It is the pure love of sport, which 
would not be increased in these youths if the contest 
were at Olympia. The excitement might be greater, 
the strain more intense, but inborn and inbred love of 
it would be unchanged, if they were suddenly trans- 

247 


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ferred from their daily practice in some quiet corner of 
the palaestra, to the great festival itself. 

In representing action, as it were, arrested in the 
moment of its greatest intensity, the unknown sculptor 
betrays his age, if not his school. The greater age of 
classic serenity had passed away, and the tastes of 
another day demanded action and animation. Marble 
must not merely breathe, but pant. It was the new 
era which Alexander had inaugurated, an era of stir and 
activity. To that period belongs our group of the 
Wrestlers,—the period of the Hellenistic kingdoms, 
destined soon to fall under the rule of Rome, but in the 
meantime rich and flourishing, promoting every art, 
and none more than that of the sculptor. This group 
is older then than the Venus, by perhaps a century. 
And one stage in the decline of Greek sculpture is 
measured by a comparison of these two works standing 
side by side,—one all luxurious softness, the other ac¬ 
tion of the most vigorous and masculine sort. The 
one masquerades as a goddess,—without a mask; the 
other is absolute sincerity, in representing actual life, 
such as was lived by the strenuous youth of Greek cities. 
It is a page from the old palaestra, pure in its entire 
realism, and unstained by the pretence of an ideal 
beyond that of the most perfect physical develop¬ 
ment. 

Leaving the galleries we make our way to the ex¬ 
treme southern end of the Uffizi Palace, which com¬ 
mands a magnificent view of the Arno, with its bridges 
and the whole quarter on the left bank of the river. 
From no point can we form a clearer idea of the river 
banks and the bridges, or a better impression of old 
Florence. 


248 


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FLORENCE 


No. 72 


72. Ponte Vecchio and the Arno. 

Nearest to us is the Ponte Vecchio, which is not, as 
its name would imply, the oldest of the bridges now 
standing. But it claims at least to have replaced the 
older bridge, which went back even to Roman times. 
The Arno has been more destructive than the Tiber, 
and Florence has no bridge which is older in its present 
structure than the thirteenth century. This one has 
suffered more than any of the others, but what we 
now see is as old as 1362. Three great stone arches 
rest upon solid piers, with a very sharp angle to the 
current of the stream. But what gives the bridge its 
character is the fascinating shops, built out on either 
side over the water in the most picturesque fashion. 
Here alone does the old mediaeval custom survive,—the 
custom of treating a bridge not as a mere causeway for 
the passage of traffic, but as a place of trade in itself. 
In this case the shops were given over to a single trade, 
that of the goldsmiths, who have occupied the bridge 
for five hundred years. It is virtually a bazaar, and 
but for the open arches in the centre, one would scarcely 
know that he was crossing a bridge. 

No two of the shops seem to have been built at the 
same time. Propped by timbers from below, and 
roofed above with diminutive patches of tiles, they 
seem to have grown fast to the bridge, adhering like 
barnacles to the old gray masonry. 

Over the irregular shops rises the monotonous wall 
and roof of the long corridor which connects the Uffizi 
Palace on this bank of the river with the Pitti on the 
other. By one great arch below us on our right it 
strides over the street to the brink of the Arno, and then 
running directly away from us on a series of open arches, 
it follows the river bank to the Ponte Vecchio, where 

249 


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it turns to the left and crosses the bridge, also on arches, 
though most of them are hidden by the shops. We 
may enter this corridor, if we choose, and walk its 
whole length between endless pictures, among them 
the prints and engravings. The paintings are of no 
great interest, since it serves as a lumber-room for both 
the Uffizi and the Pitti galleries. Far more interesting 
are the views from those windows, many of them grated. 
The distance would occupy us no less than ten minutes, 
without ever descending to the street. By this inter¬ 
minable passage the grand-dukes of the sixteenth and 
seventeenth centuries could cross the river unob¬ 
served from the Pitti to the Uffizi. Florence in its 
more glorious days would have tolerated no such out¬ 
ward evidence of a despotism stepping in this manner 
over the streets and bridges of what had been a free 
city. 

Over the tiles of the corridor we see two other stone 
bridges, looking either more ancient, or more modern 
than the Ponte Vecchio, with no suggestion of the 
mediaeval or the picturesque. The first is the Ponte 
S. Trinity, built in the thirteenth century, and rebuilt 
in the sixteenth. The second is the Carraja. Erected 
about 1220, it was destroyed with the Ponte Vecchio by 
the flood of 1333, and in its present form dates also from 
the sixteenth century. In the distance is still another 
bridge,—a suspension-bridge of very recent construc¬ 
tion. The trees below, at the bend in the river, mark 
the location of the most popular park of Florence, 
the Cascine, a long narrow strip of woods and gardens 
by the Arno. 

Of the right bank of the river we can see little from 
our present point of view, except the fronts of tall 
houses looking either down into this dark narrow street 
250 


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FLORENCE 


No. 72 


below us, or else across the Arno, there beyond the 
shadow of the corridor. 

On the other side of the river we have some of the 
most picturesque houses in Florence,—a bit of the 
middle ages left standing, or rather overhanging the 
waters of the Arno. One church tower, that of S. 
Jacopo, is also close to the river. But beyond the Ponte 
S. Trinita modern improvements have replaced the 
tumble-down houses, threatening to fall into the river, 
by a broad quay and uninteresting modern buildings. 
One dome rises above these, but S. Frediano is not among 
the celebrated churches,—is scarcely known, in fact, to 
travelers, except as having given its name to the nearest 
gate of the city, not far below the church. 

Above the housetops we have a bit of the Tuscan 
landscape,—the convent of Monte Oliveto , with its 
cypresses against the sky. 

But it is the foreground which claims most attention 
in this view. The Ponte Vecchio , marred as it is by the 
tyranny of the grand-ducal corridor, recalls so many 
memories of the mediaeval Florence, and of the Florence of 
the Renaissance. One cannot forget that from the ranks 
of those goldsmiths came many of th'e most eminent 
masters in painting, the art which is above all things 
Florentine. Remembering this, one may perhaps for¬ 
give the grand-dukes, and see a certain fitness in the 
fact that the two greatest picture galleries of the world, 
full of the most mature productions of the painter’s art, 
should now be linked together in this unique manner by 
a passage which marches proudly over the shops of the 
goldsmiths. 

From the lofty galleries of the XJffizi we descend into 
the court, retrace our steps to the Piazza della Signoria, 

251 


No. 73 


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and so to the duomo and the baptistery. A short dis¬ 
tance down a narrow, but busy street we discover the 
famous palace of the Medici. 

73 . Riccardi Palace, 

Again we are reminded of the massive strength of the 
Palazzo Vecchio. but in spite of it are at once aware that 
there is here nothing mediaeval. The battlements are 
replaced by a heavy cornice, and there is no tower at all. 
Those two changes alone would sufficiently mark the 
difference between the castle of the middle ages and the 
palace of a more peaceful age. Yet the old idea of 
defence is prominent in the architecture of this palace. 
The great rough blocks of masonry which compose the 
lower story are suggestive of the strength of a fortress 
or a citv-wall. And the few windows of that story are 
provided with iron grills, while the small square windows 
are placed far above the street, and also barred. The 
great archway leading to the court within has doors 
which might well resist siege by a mob. In those im¬ 
mense arches this lower story has its chief feature. 
Even these were once more forbidding than now, before 
the window pediments and frames had been added by 
Michael Angelo. But while the builder of the palace 
was not content with a mere wall for this basement 
story, he has not bound himself to symmetry in the spac¬ 
ing of these arches and windows. In this, at least, the 
old mediaeval freedom still remains. 

The first story shows a more subdued style of masonry, 
as compared with the bolder rustic work below. Among 
the architects this also would be called rustic, though 
in this case the surfaces of the blocks are smoothed, and 
only the joints are strongly marked. The windows are 
252 


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FLORENCE 


No. 73 


not unlike those of the Palazzo Vecchio, except that all 
traces of a pointed arch or Gothic detail are absent. 
The slender column still divides the window into two 
lights. In the head of the larger enclosing arch are 
carved rosettes, or the balls which constituted the arms 
of the Medici family. At the angle of the wall the arms 
appear again, upon a shield with sculptured ribbons and 
bracket. The mouldings which separate the stories 
also recall the Palazzo Vecchio , but here classical forms 
have been used. 

The second story has no rustic masonry, but only a 
smooth-dressed wall, with windows almost exactly 
similar to those of the story below. There is no striving 
after effect by variety,—nothing but the repetition of the 
same motive the whole length of the fafade. 

Above is a mighty cornice projecting far out over the 
street, ninety feet below. Here again classical mould¬ 
ings are used, but no Greek or Roman cornice was merely 
reproduced. The permanent charm of the Medici Palace 
is due in no small degree to the fact that a building 
belonging so distinctly to the new movement called the 
Renaissance, which drew its inspiration almost wholly 
from the Roman ruins, had still made no breach with 
the mediaeval past. It is not a mechanical revival of 
classical architecture. One has to look closely to see 
anything that can be called a direct imitation of the 
antique. The study of the old models had been a far 
more vital matter than that, leading the architect 
rather to preserve, than to cast aside, the best of the 
mediaeval traditions, and to show his classical leanings 
mainly in the perfect harmony and repose of the whole. 
In a later generation he would have thought it necessary 
to bring in columns and entablatures and pediments, 
more or less after the style of this church across the street 
253 


No. 73 


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Map 


(seventeenth century), which shows the old classical 
forms used in the most lifeless and mechanical fashion. 

Turning to the palace again we are more than ever 
sure that it represents a creative age, acting under a 
great impulse. It was in fact built within ten years 
after Brunelleschi had started the new movement, under 
the influence of his studies at Rome. The architect was 
Michelozzo, and this is his best known work, undertaken 
about 1430 for Cosimo de’ Medici, whose father, Gio¬ 
vanni, was the founder of the family fortunes. They 
were at first a family of bankers, but political influence 
followed their wealth, and in the commercial aristocracy 
of Florence the Medici gained the foremost place. In 
the days when Cosimo lived in this palace as practical 
ruler of Florence, as the patron of her artists, and 
founder of her collections and her library, there was no 
royal palace in Europe which rivaled in refined luxury 
and splendor this house of the Florentine banker. Here 
Lorenzo the Magnificent was born, and ruled with even 
more state than his grandfather Cosimo had done. 

But in 1659, in spite of its historic associations with 
the most brilliant period of the family annals, the palace 
was sold to the Riccardi family, whose name it still 
bears, although it has been government property for 
nearly a century. Under the Riccardi it was consider¬ 
ably enlarged toward the right. 

At the angle of the basement story is a beautiful 
wrought-iron lantern, above the modern lamp-post. Iron 
rings and hooks are placed by every window, to receive 
banners and torches on festal occasions. Large rings 
are also set in the masonry of the lowest story, not far 
above the stone bench which runs around the founda¬ 
tions of the palace. These are minor touches, but they 
enter into the make-up of the typical Florentine palace. 

254 


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No. 74 


And among all the palaces of the princely families of 
Florence, none has so prominent a place, either in history 
or in the history of architecture, as this of the Medici and 
the Riccardi. 

Having seen the palace of the Medici, and recalled 
the glories of Florence in the fifteenth and sixteenth 
centuries, it is time once more to revert to the mediaeval, 
choosing for the most striking contrast a palace of the 
thirteenth century. We return by the rear of the 
cathedral to the neighborhood of the Palazzo Vecchio. 
Entering the Bargello by a narrow door we find our¬ 
selves in the court. 

74 . The Court of the Bargello. 

Heavy arches run around three sides of this small 
court, resting on strong piers of octagonal form, with 
Gothic sculptured capitals. The arches themselves are 
rounded, but less than a semi-circle. On the fourth 
side of the court a long staircase ascends to the upper 
floor. The newel-post rises in a short octagonal column, 
with carved capital bearing a lion. The parapet is al¬ 
most absolutely plain, projecting slightly beyond the 
wall below, and moulded in steps. At about half their 
height the stately stairs are broken by a landing, and this 
is emphasized and adorned by a stone gateway richly 
carved with armorial bearings. Iron gates close this 
unique portal, midway between the court below and 
that upper loggia, which the stairs approach through a 
smaller and lower arch. For each of the great arches 
below there are two in that upper arcade. The forms 
are much the same,—severely simple, but vigorous, and 
beautiful in proportion, as well as in detail. Through 
255 


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the arches we see the groined vaulting more distinctly 
than the dense shadows permit in the case of the lower 
arches. The loggia is also lighted on the further side 
by paired Gothic windows looking down into the street. 
It is one of the chief features of this old palace, and 
would unquestionably have been carried around the 
entire court, had space permitted. The effect would have 
been more imposing, but scarcely more picturesque. 
For if this almost blank wall on our right was uninter¬ 
esting enough when the Bargello was new, it long ago 
lost its severity, and took on this endlessly varied ap¬ 
pearance, as one after another of the occupants of the 
palace affixed to the walls a carved tablet bearing the 
arms of his family. No attempt was made to arrange 
this long series in any kind of order, and the result is 
the most picturesque irregularity. Crowded closely to¬ 
gether there over the lion’s head, they stray away in 
all directions, far above the stairs. They have found a 
resting-place upon the gateway, and flocked together 
again over the great dark arches, a few scattering once 
more to perch over the loggia above. Here and there 
the lily of Florence occurs, but that does not belong to 
the series of escutcheons. 

The strange feature of this palace was the fact that 
it was not to be occupied by any one family from 
generation to generation. The history of the house is 
written in these changing coats-of-arms, among which 
the Florentine families are not, as a rule, to be found. 
The Podestd, who lived here, could not be a native of 
Florence. It was expressly ordained that he must be 
a stranger, *a noble, and a Guelph. That was as long 
ago as 1199, and the reason for so strange an enactment 
was that the city was torn by party strife, while its 
noble families were perpetually involved in feuds. 

256 


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No. 74 


What such a society demanded was not a magistrate in 
the ordinary sense, but an umpire, with a strong hand 
to enforce his decisions in all cases of dispute between 
the rival parties, or families carrying on private warfare 
in the streets. Accordingly, the Podesta was to be an 
outsider, unprejudiced, and, if possible, ignorant of the 
old feuds. Under his command the military forces 
to the city could take the field. It was this strange 
magistracy which has covered these walls with some 
two hundred coats-of-arms of its incumbents. For the 
term was brief, at first six months, and then a year. 

The palace, or rather castle, was built in the middle 
of the thirteenth century, and here the Podesta resided 
from 1261 on, for more than three centuries, the old 
office losing the last remnant of its importance after 
the republic fell under the power of the dukes. There¬ 
after, the Bargello, or chief of police, had his seat here, 
and the old castle was degraded to the rank of a prison 
for two hundred and fifty years or more, down to the 
fall of the last grand-duke, and the entrance of Tuscany 
into the new kingdom of Italy. Now at last it has 
been restored, and converted into a museum,—the Na¬ 
tional Museum. But none of the objects it contains— 
valuable as they are—can make us forget the extra¬ 
ordinary interest of the old structure itself. We return 
again and again to this picturesque court, and standing 
near the well in the centre, seem to be carried back 
into the thirteenth century, into the midst of the bloody 
scenes which were a part of the every-day life of Flor¬ 
ence. One can almost see this court filled with armed 
men, ready to march out under the Podestb on an errand 
of peacemaking, after the rough-and-ready method 
which alone seemed suited to the times. We can 
imagine Dante climbing those long stairs, or looking 

257 


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down with the privileged from the loggia above. It is 
the mediaeval Florence, preserved to us unimpaired, the 
Florence of Giotto and Arnolfo, the Florence which her 
greatest poet was to carry with him through every re¬ 
gion of Hell and Purgatory and Paradise. 

It is scarcely possible to go anywhere in Florence 
without feeling at every turn the wide difference which 
separated the middle ages from the great and prolific 
age of the new awakening,—the Renaissance. We have 
felt it in the Uffizi, at the Medici Palace, and the Bar- 
gello. We may realize it, perhaps, more keenly in 
works of sculpture, where no mediaeval traditions were 
unconsciously retained (as was often the case in archi¬ 
tecture) and everything was based upon the study of 
ancient models, or a quickened observation of Nature. 
For such a purpose we must visit the tombs of the 
Medici at S. Lorenzo, which lies beyond the Medici 
Palace. Again we return to the duomo and the bap¬ 
tistery, and by a narrow street reach the square of 
S. Lorenzo. It is a great group of buildings,—a church 
with its cloisters, the celebrated Laurentian Library, 
the sacristies, of which one is a mausoleum; finally the 
huge Chapel of the Princes, the burial-place of the 
Medici grand-dukes. But for us the place of chief in¬ 
terest is the New Sacristy, containing the famous Medici 
tombs by Michael Angelo. 

75 . Tomb of Giuliano de' Medici. 

In the centre of one wall sits a soldierly figure in a 
niche. Below him two heroic forms, a man and a 
woman, recline upon the lid of the sarcophagus, a simple 
chest of marble raised upon two high supports like 


258 


10 


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No. 75 


those of an ancient table, and resting upon a pedestal 
still more severe. The paneled wall below, the pilasters 
and niches above, are inseparable from the monument. 
Architecture and sculpture have united in the hand of 
Michael Angelo to produce a rarely perfect harmony. 
It is scarcely possible to conceive of the figures apart 
from one another or from this architectural back¬ 
ground. The New Sacristy of S. Lorenzo was not to 
be a mere chapel, with separate tombs of various dates 
and styles. It was to be one harmonious whole, 
planned, and in large part executed, by the incom¬ 
parable master. 

Cardinal Giulio de’ Medici commissioned the work, 
and since the most famous members of the family were 
already commemorated, either in the church or in the 
old sacristy, the immediate task was the erection of 
monuments to Giuliano and Lorenzo, who had recently 
died. Lorenzo’s tomb was to have allegorical figures of 
Twilight and Morning; Giuliano’s, Day and Night. 
The tombs were thus planned to be the exact counter¬ 
parts of one another. The cardinal was soon elected to 
the papacy in 1523, as Clement VII; and Michael 
Angelo began to work upon these portrait statues. But 
years intervened in which Italy was to be convulsed 
with wars, Rome sacked in 1527, and liberty at Florence 
stamped out by the Medici. The sculptor himself was 
of the losing party, and narrowly escaped with his life, 
to find that the Medici were willing to ignore his past, 
if only he would complete these tombs. It was in 1530 
that the Florentine republic came to an end with the 
establishment of Alessandro de’ Medici in power, by 
the help of his father-in-law, the Emperor Charles V. 
And in the same year Michael Angelo was at work once 
upon these tombs, and occupied with the re- 
259 


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Map 


dining figures. Bitterness of soul made the task an im¬ 
possible one for him to finish, and four years later, when 
Pope Clement VII died, the work was at once discon¬ 
tinued, never again to be resumed. Two walls of the 
sacristy were left entirely unfinished. And of these 
sculptures some are but half-finished; none had received 
the last hand of the master. 

On the right the masculine figure, with the huge 
shoulder and the Herculean muscles, represents Day, re¬ 
clining upon a rock, and looking sternly away, as from 
some mountain-peak. But the expression of the face 
is lost in the still unchiseled marble. On the left 
Night is sleeping, also upon a rock, over which her gar¬ 
ment is spread. The left arm is bent back behind a 
projection of the rock, while the right supports the 
head. The left knee is raised almost as high as the 
head, and the colossal thigh gives the right elbow its 
point of support. Beneath the left foot is a bundle of 
poppy-heads, and close by stands an owl, under the 
arch of the knee. The mask may, perhaps, indicate 
dreams. Even without these attributes, to suggest 
sleep and night, we should have no doubt as to the 
meaning of this figure sunk in deep sleep. It is no 
Venus de’ Medici* that Michael Angelo has here repre¬ 
sented in an uneasy repose, on her stony couch under 
the open sky. There is none of the softness of mere 
feminine beauty. Womanhood here is all strength,— 
the strength of the elemental forces. It is Night, in the 
full maturity of her powers. If such a figure had come 
down from antiquity, it would be interpreted as the 
Greek sculptor’s personification of some wild northern 
country, as Scythia, for example, where Nature could 

* See No. 70. 


260 



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FLORENCE 


No. 75 


produce no forms that were not more gigantic than 
beautiful. 

When this statue was first shown, poets wrote verses 
in its praise and attached them to it, according to the 
custom of the day. One of the Strozzi wrote some of 
these lines, praising the life expressed in the marble,— 
bidding his reader wake her, and she would speak to 
him. Michael Angelo replied in the same manner—for 
among his many gifts was that of poetry also—but with 
passionate anger at the suppression of liberty:— 

Welcome is sleep to my soul, still more to be graven in marble, 

While for a down-trodden state ruin and shame shall endure. 
Naught to see or feel,—this comes to me now as high fortune; 

Do not awaken me then, whisper in soft tones and low! 

In the niche over these figures of Night and Day is 
the youthful Giuliano de’ Medici (died 1516), a son of 
Lorenzo the Magnificent, also known by his French title 
as the Duke of Nemours. Dressed as a Roman em¬ 
peror, he sits like a general upon a hill-top, viewing the 
distant scene of battle,—alert, and ready to rise, like the 
Moses* of the same sculptor in Rome. In his lap he 
holds the baton of a general, and the hands are most ex¬ 
pressive, as in more than one of Michael Angelo’s statues. 
In every respect we have an ideal portrait, and no real 
likeness of this Medici. Few modern statues in that 
ideal spirit can be compared with this and its companion, 
Lorenzo, facing it from the opposite niche,—the one all 
action, the other reflection, as deliberately contrasted 
as are Day and Night, or the other figures, Twilight and 
Dawn. 

For a view of Florence from a height we cross the 
river and climb through a beautiful terraced park, past 


* See No. 42. 


261 



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ITALY 


Map 


bronze copies of Michael Angelo’s David, and of the 
four periods of the day,—the very statues we have just 
been admiring at S. Lorenzo. From any of these ter¬ 
races we enjoy a broad view over the city, but to better 
advantage as we approach the old church of S. Miniato. 

76. Florence from San Miniato. 

In the centre the dome of the cathedral rises far 
above the sea of roofs, the great ribs leading the eye 
up to the lantern above. Below, in the drum of the 
dome, we see clearly the round windows, beneath a 
cornice-arcade, of which one small portion only was 
ever completed. The smaller domes below are clearly 
visible over nave and transept. The long white nave 
carries its lofty clerestory—pierced also with round 
windows—to the campanile. One is struck here by the 
fact that Giotto’s Tower seems almost as high as the 
dome of Brunelleschi. Together they stand for the very 
best that Florence ever produced in architecture, and 
represent the two periods we have been so constantly 
contrasting,—but with a perfect harmony which makes 
that group impossible to forget. 

Against the whiteness of the duo mo we see two dark 
towers. That to the right, severe and simple, with one 
tall arch in its highest story, is the tower of the Bargcllo, 
and true in every respect to the character of that old 
castle. The slender octagonal tower with a spire, be¬ 
tween the Bargello and the campanile, is the tower of 
the Badia, a church dating from the fourteenth century. 

Away to the left is the daring tower of the Palazzo 
Vecchio, in form and color a perfect contrast to Giotto’s 
Tower. The battlements of the palace also appear over 
the housetops. Between this and the campanile of 
262 


10 


FLORENCE 


No. 76 


Giotto is a smaller dome, which seems a feeble imitation 
of the mighty cupola of the duomo. It is the Chapel of 
the Princes, close by the New Sacristy of S. Lorenzo. 
Still nearer to the campanile is a low pointed roof in 
white. That is the baptistery, the pride of Florence in 
Dante’s time, but now most widely known on account 
of the bronze doors of Ghiberti. 

Passing in an easterly direction to the right of the 
duomo, we find no conspicuous monuments until we 
reach the church of Santa Croce. The glistening white 
facade is turned away from us, but we have the long side 
of the nave in all its bareness, with the barn-like gables 
and narrow windows. It is the Westminster Abbey of 
Florence, or rather of Italy, so many monuments of 
famous men does it contain, among them those of 
Dante (buried, however, at Ravenna) and Michael 
Angelo. But its frescoes would in themselves give it 
the foremost place among the Florentine churches. 
The view of the cloisters is hidden by the houses; we 
can at least see the Brancacci chapel,—a low dome 
close to the church on the right. It was the very first 
building to be erected in the Renaissance style,—by 
Brunelleschi in 1420. 

In the distance above Santa Croce rise the hills to the 
west of Fiesole, dotted over with villas, until gardens and 
trees seem suddenly to end in the tiled roofs of the city. 

For the foreground we have a part of the Oltr' Arno, 
or quarter on the left bank of the river. This bastion on 
our right is a part of the fortifications which were con¬ 
structed under the direction of Michael Angelo about 
the height of S. Miniato in 1529. The siege then antici¬ 
pated came in the following year, and the sculptor was 
in charge of all the fortifications. But in the intervals 
he was to be found among the statues in his studio, or 

263 


No. 76 


ITALY 


Maps 


even engaged upon a painting. After the city had been 
betrayed into the hands of the Medici in the summer of 
1530, Angelo lay in hiding for some time. And the 
place of his concealment happens to be in full view from 
this point. It was the tower of that church, S. Niccolb, 
on this side of the river, and directly in the line between 
ourselves and the duomo. 

The course of the river is marked out for us by the tall 
houses of the opposite bank. Among those buildings 
is the Bourse, with a classical portico, near the Palazzo 
Vecchio. Further to the right is the Ponte alle Grazie, 
oldest of the present bridges of Florence, built in 1237. 
Here and there among the roofs, or through the trees, 
we can see the Arno itself. 

Recalling our view of Rome from the Janiculum,* this 
of Florence from San Miniato is strikingly different. 
There all was complicated by the overlapping of the 
hills until close study was necessary in order to carry 
away any distinct impression; and the extent of the city, 
and the dispersion of its monuments, made it impossible 
to bring all into any one view; while beyond lay a broad 
plain, bounded only by mountains at a great distance. 
And then an uninteresting foreground kept us at a dis¬ 
tance from what we really wished to see, while the Tiber 
was almost entirely lost to view. Florence does not hold 
herself at arm’s length. Unlike Trastevere, Oltr’ Arno 
makes a beautiful foreground, so largely green; while 
here and there black cypresses stand out above white 
walls or gray tiles. The Arno makes a strong line of 
division, beyond which lies a city so small that a single 
sweep of the glass takes in all that is really historic. 
Concentration, and an intensely local development,— 
these are the thoughts which inevitably come into one’s 


* See No. 63. 


264 



10, 1 


PISA 


No. 77 


mind. It is utterly unlike anything Roman; it can but 
suggest the cities of old Greece, and above all, Athens, 
where all the rays of Greek genius met in a common 
focus. And as the light of Athenian culture burned 
with an intense brilliance, which has not even yet faded 
from the minds of men, and never will; so the fires 
which Florence kindled in art and letters and education 
have sent their light and heat to the furthest corners 
of the world. 

Had there been no Florence, modern life would be a 
different thing in more ways than one can possibly 
imagine,—reason enough why we should linger and 
dream over this view of the city by the Arno, its roofs 
and towers, and its one great dome, rising to the green 
slopes of the Tuscan hills. 

PISA 

Pisa we shall visit as an excursion from Florence, 
making an early start. The distance is barely fifty 
miles, but the great part of the day will be spent in 
going and coming. The railway follows the right bank 
of the Arno, crossing after a dozen miles to the oppo¬ 
site bank. The valley is full of places which have fig¬ 
ured in the history of Florence, and especially in the 
struggles between that city and Pisa. At last we reach 
Pisa, and crossing the river once more, make our way 
through the narrow streets to the northwest angle of the 
city, where its most celebrated buildings are grouped 
together in a retired spot by the city-wall. 

77. The Leaning Tower. 

Certainly the most striking member of the group is 
the famous Leaning Tower. Its strange inclination at 
265 


No. 77 


ITALY 


Map 


once diverts the eye from the cathedral and the baptis¬ 
tery. With a height of 178 feet, it leans so far to the 
south that a stone dropped from that side of the tower 
would fall about fourteen feet beyond the foundations. 
Yet the diameter of the tower is about fifty feet, so that 
the stability of the structure is ensured, except in case 
of some violent earthquake, or if the foundations should 
give way. It is safe at least from the danger that over¬ 
took the campanile of Venice* in the summer of 1902, 
for this tower is solidly and honestly built, with walls 
which are twelve feet thick in the first story. 

Whether the inclination has resulted from the set¬ 
tling of the foundations, or from the design of its build¬ 
ers, who wished the campanile of Pisa to be the talk of 
all who visited it, is one of the questions which have 
long been discussed. Bologna has two leaning towers, 
one of them three hundred and twenty feet high, but it 
is only four feet out of the perpendicular. The other 
is one hundred and sixty-three feet in height, while it 
leans to the extent of ten feet. The latter is mentioned 
by Dante, who would scarcely have failed to mention 
this tower of Pisa, more daring, and far more beautiful, 
had the inclination been very conspicuous in his time. 

Evidently the builders had from the first some reason 
to suspect the ground, and they took the precaution to 
drive a mass of piles as much as six feet beyond their 
foundations all around. This was in the year 1174. 
When the first story had been completed, it was found 
that the tower had settled very slightly to the south. 
The open arcade of this second story was accordingly 
made a trifle higher (a little more than an inch) on that 
side. At the second and the third galleries similar 
corrections were applied, but increasing to nearly three 


* See No. 80. 


266 



1 


PISA 


No. 77 


inches. Having reached about half its height in per¬ 
haps a dozen years, the tower was left deserted for sixty 
years. After that interval, the settling of the founda¬ 
tions had brought the third arcade out of level by as 
much as six inches. A fourth gallery, also higher to the 
south, was added, and then after another interval of 
about twenty-five years, the fifth and sixth stories, 
with the same attempts to correct the evident inclina¬ 
tion. Again there were doubts about the safety of the 
tower, and it was nearly another century before the 
smaller topmost story for the bells was added, in 1350, 
with a further correction large enough to be readily dis¬ 
covered from below. In fact, one has only to hold up 
a straight-edge before the eye and apply it to the south 
side of the tower, in order to find that the line of that 
side is a curve. It was hoped that the settlement had 
finally ceased, with that platform just below the bells 
some nine inches out of the level. But to-day the same 
floor is thirty inches or more out of the level. And if 
the gradual subsidence should continue at this same 
rate of nearly four inches to the century, the ultimate 
fall of the tower cannot be delayed many centuries. 

There are, however, many who still believe that the 
builders of this campanile deliberately constructed a 
wonder, knowing that they were well within the limits 
of safety, so long as a plumb-line dropped from the 
north side at the top fell some distance within the south 
wall at the base. According to this view, the corrections 
from story to story were made from increasing timidity. 
But faith in the principles of equilibrium would scarcely 
fail those who had begun with the deliberate intention 
to astonish the world. And if we observe the archi¬ 
tecture, which depends entirely upon story after story 
of columns bearing arcades, it becomes quite impossible 

267 


No. 77 


ITALY 


Map 


to believe that any architect, with sufficient originality 
to apply that method of ornament to a bell-tower, 
would have consented to place every column askew, 
especially in close proximity to the cathedral, lavishly 
adorned with arcades of the same sort, and always vertical. 

Comparing this campanile with that of Giotto,* one 
is impressed with the massiveness of this tower, in 
spite of the open-work of the galleries. The height 
is only about three and one-half times the diameter of 
the base, whereas, Giotto’s tower is some six and one- 
half times as high as its thickness at the base. In per¬ 
fection of form or ornament no one would think of com¬ 
paring the two, and yet these rows of columns with their 
arches form a decoration in harmony with the adjoin¬ 
ing cathedral, and, though rather monotonous, still not 
to be refused certain merits of its own. 

Behind the tower is the wall of the city, and in the 
distance the mountains which lie to the northeast of Pisa. 
The angle of the cathedral to the left shows one of the 
simpler portions of the structure, unrelieved at this 
point by the small columns which elsewhere abound. 

Past the cathedral and the baptistery we stroll to the 
other end of the broad open space. Looking back from 
our station near the city-wall and its Porta Nuova, we 
have the entire group of buildings in a single view. 

78. Baptistery, Cathedral, and leaning Tower . 

Nearest of all is the baptistery, on our left,—and fur¬ 
thest away on the right, the Leaning Tower, partly 
hidden by the transept of the cathedral. To the left 
of the baptistery is the long enclosing wall of the Campo 
Santo, the most famous of Italian cemeteries. 


* See No. 66. 


268 



1 


PISA 


No. 78 


The broad stretch of green in which these buildings 
stand is like the close of an English cathedral, and 
scarcely to be paralleled anywhere in Italy. The 
cathedral of Pisa has never stood in the crowd and noise 
of a city. Built by some strange good fortune outside 
the older walls, it was later included within a wider cir¬ 
cuit of fortifications. To this seclusion is due in no 
small part the effect of all that we have before us,—this 
almost monastic air of retirement and peace. Most 
cathedrals seem to prefer the very centre of a city’s life. 
This of Pisa, like so many in England, suggests escape 
from the world and its cares. 

At first the baptistery seems almost as strange a build¬ 
ing as the Leaning Tower. Certainly its roof is unlike 
anything to be seen elsewhere. It is a circular struc¬ 
ture of white marble—as are all these buildings at Pisa- 
standing exactly in line with the axis of the cathedral. 
In diameter it measures ninety-eight feet and one hundred 
and ninety feet in height. The lower story has half-col¬ 
umns, bearing twenty large arches. Beneath these are 
placed the four doorways, the principal entrance facing the 
cathedral, and richly adorned, while the windows are 
extremely simple. In the second story a light gallery, 
like those of the Leaning Tower, is borne by a multitude 
of small columns. Above these are Gothic gables and 
pinnacles, with sculptures. The third story also repre¬ 
sents a Gothic addition to the original structure, and 
is without columns, except for the small shafts in the 
windows. Then begins the dome, tiled on this side 
but leaded on the other, and divided into sections, not 
by strong ribs as in the dome of Brunelleschi at Flor¬ 
ence,* but by feebler ribs, with small Gothic “ crockets.” 
Near the top the dome-form is suddenly abandoned for 


* See No. 66. 


269 



No. 78 


ITALY 


Map 


that of a pyramid of many sides, finally crowned with a 
small dome and a statue. Without a study of the 
interior we should never guess the explanation of this 
most singular roof. In reality it belongs to two periods, 
—the Romanesque, and then the Gothic. It had been 
begun in 1153, and its inner circle of columns sustained, 
first an upper gallery, and then a pyramidal vaulting, 
almost conical, but cut off at the top to admit the light 
through a central opening like the Pantheon at Rome.* 
It is the upper part of that vaulting (now closed by the 
little dome) which gives the whole roof its weird ap¬ 
pearance. For in the course of the Gothic alterations 
at the end of the thirteenth century the conical roof 
was largely concealed beneath the dome which we now 
see. In spite of this eccentric character, the baptistery 
of Pisa ranks very high on account of the beauty of its 
details. 

The cathedral is planned like an old Roman basilica, 
but Lombard architecture has influenced the Pisan 
builders to a very marked degree. And the wealth of 
columns and precious marbles brought by the fleets of 
Pisa from the East adds its suggestions of Constan¬ 
tinople and the Byzantine love of ornament. The 
lower portion of the facade has arcades on a large scale, 
as in the baptistery. Then begin open galleries, four in 
number, like those of the tower. Everywhere it is of 
marble, and there are sculptures and mosaics, and 
bands of dark marble. At the crossing of the nave 
and transepts is a quaint elliptical dome, to which a 
Gothic filigree has been added. The cathedral was 
finished in 1100. 

It was the golden age of Pisa, in which these build¬ 
ings were built. The ancient importance of this sea- 


* See No. 45. 


270 



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PISA 


No. 78 


port in Roman times had never been quite forgotten, 
though the monuments of those, days had almost dis¬ 
appeared. The wars with the Saracens and the cru¬ 
sades brought Pisa into its new importance as the 
equal of any of the commercial cities of the Mediter¬ 
ranean, even Genoa and Venice. With the twelfth 
century began the foreign conquests of Pisa,—Sardinia, 
Corsica, the Balearic Islands. By the end of the thir¬ 
teenth century Pisa had begun to fall behind her rivals 
in the race. Florence was the rising power, and the 
fame of her neighbor began to decline. While in sculp¬ 
ture and architecture Pisa had been one of the chief 
centres, in painting she was obliged to depend upon 
masters from Florence and Siena for the frescoes which 
adorn the Campo Santo. 

In architecture we seem to be here in a different at¬ 
mosphere from that which we have been breathing in 
Florence,—no sign of the Renaissance, since everything 
had been completed before the new impulse came 
with the fifteenth century. Even the Gothic appears 
as mere superficial alteration of this older style, the 
Tuscan Romanesque, which had its roots in late 
Roman building of the times of Diocletian and Con¬ 
stantine, when for the first time it began to be custom¬ 
ary to rest an arch directly upon columns, as in these 
endless arcades of Pisa. We have gone back one step 
nearer to Rome, and found a missing link in the chain, 
here among the unspoiled monuments of twelfth-cen¬ 
tury Pisa. 

We return from Pisa up the Arno valley to Florence, 
and set out to cross the Apennines by way of Pistoja, 
and down to the plains of the Po. Through Bologna 
with its leaning towers, through Ferrara, and then 

271 


ITALY 


Map 


Padua of the many domes, we approach the lagoons. 
At last a long causeway carries us over to the island- 
city of Venice. And the transition from the prose of 
railway travel to the poetry of the gondola is as sudden 
as it is complete, 

VENICE 

For our first sight-seeing we shall steer our course 
down the Grand Canal and across to the island of S. 
Giorgio Maggiore. 

But in the meantime to recall in brief outline the 
history of this city of the sea:— 

The commerce of the Adriatic was anciently in the 
hands of Aquileia, a hundred and twenty miles north¬ 
east of Venice. A Roman colony and fortress as early 
as 182 B. C., Aquileia became the most flourishing city 
in this whole region, with a population of a hundred 
thousand, now reduced to five hundred souls. It was 
a pillar of strength against the invading barbarians, 
until at last it was destroyed by Attila and his Huns 
in 452 A. D. Many of the inhabitants fled for safety 
to the lagoons, and out of the new settlements, upon 
islands inaccessible to the invaders, grew the city of 
Venice. It was still an obscure village when the West¬ 
ern Empire came to an end. Hence it was natural 
that all its ties should be with Constantinople. For 
although the industry of the Venetians and their trade 
in salt had already attracted attention while the Ostro¬ 
goth Theodoric ruled at Ravenna (493-526), the Gothic 
War brought Ravenna itself under the authority of 
Justinian. In 56S came the Lombards, and the fear 
of the barbarian drove many more to take refuge at 
Venice and the other settlements in the lagoons. The 
early history is, however, very obscure. By the eighth 
272 


11 


VENICE 


century Venice was ruled by a doge; by the ninth he 
was domiciled upon the site of the present Palace of 
the Doges. It was in 828 that the body of St. Mark 
was brought to Venice, and under her new patron the 
city extended her commerce far and wide. Secure 
from attack by reason of an insular position, she was 
led in the interest of her commerce to make con¬ 
quests, at first on the east side of the Adriatic. Com¬ 
mercial rivalry with Genoa in the trade of the Levant 
in the time of the crusades led to further entanglements. 
Instead of the rule of despots, Venice enjoyed the 
government of a privileged class, who managed to se¬ 
cure themselves both from the fear of a tyrant and 
from the hostility of the people. This stability of a 
government which kept the doge within bounds, and 
preserved their power to the few for centuries, was one 
of the strongest elements in the prosperity of a city 
which made rapid progress while other cities were torn 
by revolution and strife. 

The great doge Dandolo, at the end of the twelfth 
and beginning of the thirteenth centuries carried Vene¬ 
tian expansion into the East, and her influence now 
reached even to the further end of the Black Sea. Wars 
with Genoa cost the loss of many of these eastern pos¬ 
sessions, but in 1352 the Genoese were at last finally 
defeated by another Dandolo. Conquests on the main¬ 
land of Italy now followed in the fifteenth century, and 
thus Venice became a more and more important factor in 
Italian politics. Wars with the Turks were frequent, 
but when they were about to capture Constantinople, 
Venice failed to send aid, and thus permitted the fall of 
a city with which her own commercial destinies were 
completely interwoven. At this period Venice had 
200,000 inhabitants and was at the height of its pros- 
273 


No. 79 


ITALY 


Map 


perity. No one fully realized that the fall of Constan¬ 
tinople was an almost fatal blow to the Venetian com¬ 
merce. And soon the age of discovery opened entirely 
new trade-routes to the East, bringing the wealth which 
had formerly fallen to Genoa and Venice into the hands 
of Portugal. From this time on, both in political im¬ 
portance and in commerce, Venice steadily declined, 
although the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were 
most brilliant in art. 

At last the Republic came to an end in 1797, when the 
last doge fell into the power of Napoleon. After the 
confusion of that period was over, Venice found herself 
a possession of Austria, and so remained, with a brief 
interval in the revolution-year (1848 and 1849), until 
1866, when Venetia was added to the new kingdom of 
Italy. 

79. Venice from the Island of S- Giorgio. 

From this island of St. George we have full in front 
the central group of buildings to which all the rest of 
Venice is a kind of pendant. 

Largest and most imposing is the Gothic Palace of the 
Doges, borne upon seventeen arches, resting on columns 
which seem almost to touch the water. Above these in 
the first (second) story is another arcade, with thirty- 
four lighter arches and tracery. Then a wide expanse 
of plain wall, relieved by a few huge windows, a central 
balcony, a few loop-holes above. Finally, a series of 
pinnacles half-concealing the low-pitched roof. Over 
the centre of the Doges’ Palace, and seeming at first to 
be part of it, rise the highest portions of the church of 
S. Marco,—a small dome, and the finials of two or three 
others. One end of the facade of the church can be seen 
274 


11 


VENICE 


No. 79 


to the left of the palace, with a conspicuous arch below, 
and pinnacles above it. But for these small parts, 
S. Marco is completely eclipsed by its neighbor, the 
palace. 

High above the square, in front of the church, towers 
the famous campanile to a height of three hundred 
and twenty-two feet. In striking contrast with the 
marbles of the Doges’ Palace and St. Mark’s, the tower 
is built cf brick, richly colored by age, however, and 
almost perfectly plain for much more than half its 
height. One sees at a glance that some centuries 
must separate that older portion below from the upper 
marble portions. So much of its history can be in¬ 
stantly discovered,—that it was built long before the 
palace, before the Gothic style had been dreamed of; 
and then completed after the pointed arch had dis¬ 
appeared, and the ancient forms had been revived by 
the architects of the Renaissance. But when we come 
to ask for details of its story, much is lost in obscurity. 
At all events it was well advanced at an early date in 
the tenth century, so that the foundations and the piles 
which sustain them are a full thousand years old. 
Restorations have altered the form of .the tower at 
various times, in the twelfth, and fourteenth, and fif¬ 
teenth centuries. To form some idea of its original 
appearance we must remove all the upper portion in 
marble; then above the old brickwork one must restore 
a simpler belfry, with probably four stilted arches on 
small short columns, set in the middle of the wall, not 
near its outer surface. The simplest eaves, just above 
the arches, and then a very low roof, would complete 
the tower after the fashion of the Lombard architects, 
and not unlike the campanile of Torcello, an old town 
to the northeast of Venice. But its severity seemed 
275 


No. 79 


ITALY 


Map 


out of keeping with the splendors of Venice in the age 
of the Renaissance. The simple belfry, stamped with 
the crudeness of an earlier age, had to give way to these 
graceful arcades; and then, to increase the height of the 
tower, another blind story was raised above the belfry, 
in appearance a great cubical block of masonry. Above 
this came a spire, crowned at a later day (1517) with a 
colossal angel. 

That the old brickwork of the tenth century is not as 
sound as it looks, that the piles far down in the mud of 
the lagoons have become unsafe by the inevitable decay 
of wood in a thousand years,—these things are constantly 
repeated by those who profess to know. But frequent 
examinations have led to nothing, and Venice declines 
to believe that its soaring campanile can possibly be in 
danger, although the cracking of walls and settling of 
floors is almost an every-day matter in a city which is 
built upon the sand.* 

At the foot of the campanile we look, into the piaz- 
zetta, the beautiful square leading up from the water¬ 
front to the fa$ade of S. Marco. At the further end is 
the clock-tower, and we can also see long banners 
floating from masts near the campanile. Near the 
water are the two tall columns, which seem to stand 
as sentinels by this principal entrance to Venice. On 
the left of the piazzetta is the Old Library, with a narrow 
front to the canal, and a long one towards the Doges' 
Palace. The larger building in three stories, still further 
to the left, was the Mint. Beyond it are the gardens 
of the Royal Palace, a part of which shows over the 
tree-tops. 

*In reality the tower did fall, on the 14th of July, 1902, by the crumbling of its 
old brick walls,—to the great sorrow of all lovers of Venice. They must now con¬ 
sole themselves with the fact that a new tower is promised, an exact reproduction 
of the old. 


276 



1 


VENICE 


No. 80 


Passing to the right of the Doges’ Palace, the two- 
storied building with wide arches contains the prisons, 
joined to the palace by the famous Bridge of Sighs, 
which we can see over the white bridge, itself in the 
deep shadows of the narrow canal. 

It is a picture out of olden times, this view of Venice 
from across the Canal of S. Marco,—not a thing newer 
than the sixteenth century, and all dominated by the 
weathered shaft of a tenth century tower. But it would 
not be Venice, if there were not always at least one gon¬ 
dola in the foreground, rocking its slender form on the 
smoothest of waters. 

Returning from the Island of S. Giorgio, we pause for 
a nearer view of these buildings, about which so much 
of the history of Venice revolves. 

80. Palace of the Doges and the Campanile. 

Besides the advantage of nearness, we have so shifted 
our position that a considerable part of St. Mark’s is 
now brought into plain view, along with that front of 
the Doges’ Palace which looks down upon the piazzetta. 
Instead of appearing as one great wall, the palace now 
shows its great depth. The long row of columns bear¬ 
ing Gothic arches is continued on the other side all the 
way to the church of St. Mark. The tracery above the 
upper arcade is now more clearly seen, and what seemed 
like a mere blank wall above is now found to be com¬ 
pletely covered with a pattern worked on a large scale 
in pale red and white marbles. The windows at the 
extreme right still retain their Gothic tracery. As for 
the other windows, which seem like great black spots 
in the delicate diaper of the wall, they must also have 
277 


No. 80 


ITALY 


Map 


had similar tracery, which one would gladly restore now. 
A great fire in 1577 destroyed the interior of the palace, 
and among all the changes which attended the restoration 
of the stately halls within, it is probable that the columns 
and traceries of the windows were removed, if they had 
not been completely ruined by the fire itself. In the 
centre, one of these windows is made the principal feature 
of this front, with balcony and sculptures and pinnacles. 
The whole expanse of wall is crowned with battlements, 
alternating with pinnacles so slender that they resemble 
spikes. It is another reminder of the East,—this unique 
form of battlements, and thoroughly in keeping with 
that half-Oriental character which belongs to so many 
things Venetian. 

Far more Oriental is the church of St. Mark, a com¬ 
posite picture of the East, but especially of the mediaeval 
Constantinople. Its green domes are supported upon a 
structure which seems to consist largely of columns, 
not in colonnades, but in clusters bearing wide arches. 
In the distance the impression of St. Mark’s is not so 
much of any architectural form, as of masses of color, 
rich in marbles and mosaic and gilding. 

The columns of the piazzetta now stand out clearly. 
They are of granite and of great height, suggesting some 
Roman temple in Syria. Certainly they came from the 
East in the twelfth century. That on the right bears 
the winged lion of St. Mark; the other sustains St. 
Theodore on a crocodile. 

To the left of the latter, and almost beneath the lofty 
campanile, are two buildings from the hand of the most 
celebrated of Venetian architects and sculptors, Sanso¬ 
vino, a contemporary of Michael Angelo. They were 
both built in 1536, the Mint, to the left, in a simpler 
and severer style with rustic half-columns, while the 

278 


11 


VENICE 


No. 80 


Library, of which we see but one end, is richly adorned 
with columns and sculptures. Its open arches corre¬ 
spond in a way with those of the Doges’ Palace on the 
other side of the square. But there is a wonderful con¬ 
trast in every other way between the two buildings, the 
one showing the boldness, and even recklessness, of a 
Gothic structure, bearing its whole weight upon a sim¬ 
ple row of columns, and the other reviving the old 
Roman methods, which we saw used in the Colosseum;* 
that is, the arches rest upon square piers, and these 
are partly concealed and partly strengthened by half¬ 
columns supporting an entablature. The upper story 
repeats the same motive, but with more columns under 
the arches. A sculptured frieze, a balustrade with 
sculptures and small obelisks complete this much ad¬ 
mired building. Diligently studied by English archi¬ 
tects it has left its mark in many a city of England. 
Possibly, it has been admired more than it deserves. 
But its sculptured decorations raise it far above the 
level of any of the old Roman arcades which Sansovino 
strove to imitate and excel. The books for which the 
Old Library was erected were long ago removed to the 
Doges’ Palace, and those upper rooms became a part 
of the Royal Palace. 

Beneath the columns at the foot of the piazzetta is 
one of the chief stations of the gondoliers, always to 
be found in large numbers at this spot. 

We land from our gondola at the Riva degli Schiavoni, 
a wide quay paved with marble, and extending some 
distance to the east of the Doges’ Palace. It is one of 
the favorite promenades of Venice, which so often com¬ 
pensates for the narrow canals without sidewalks, by 
broad quays and piazzas. 


* See No. 37. 


279 



No. 81 


ITALY 


Map 


81. The Molo and Palace of the Doges, 

Walking along the Riva towards the bridge, we are 
able to estimate the great length of the Doges’ Palace, 
as its arches march in a long file from column to column. 
It is some two hundred and thirty-four feet long, but 
the receding lines of columns, especially those in the 
upper tier, give the impression of much greater length. 
In the upper portion of the wall we have an opportunity 
to study the diaper pattern in marble which covers the 
whole surface. Three windows at this angle of the 
palace have Gothic tracery still, in harmony with that 
above the upper arcade. These windows are set at a 
lower level than the others. Apparently the architects 
sought such variety. Hence square openings like those 
above. The rear wall of the palace, as we see it over 
the bridge, is of brick, and here not concealed by marble 
facings. Above, We may notice once more the strange 
eastern battlements and spikes and the delicate pinna¬ 
cles against the sky. Through those battlements on the 
right we have a glimpse of the extreme summit of the 
campanile and its angel. The old palace has suffered 
as many changes as anything in Venice. Built so long 
ago as the year 800, rebuilt again and again, it even 
now looks a couple of centuries older than it really is. 
What we see of its exterior is of the fifteenth century, 
begun in 1422, and continued for some twenty years. 
It is then contemporary with the dome of the cathedral 
in Florence. Long after the new Renaissance style had 
established itself among the Florentines, the Venetians 
continued to build after the Gothic manner. And of 
all the Gothic structures in the city of the Adriatic, 
none is so remarkable as this, none showing such a 
wealth of beautiful detail. Every capital is a study in 
itself, but especially the great corner capitals at the 
angles of the lower arcade. 

280 


11 


VENICE 


No. 81 


On our right is the ^prison-building, its broad arches 
barred, and windows grated. It was built in the six¬ 
teenth century, in a massive Renaissance style. The 
bridge itself is fascinating. Broad steps ascend to the 
centre, and each step has its separate section of the bal¬ 
ustrade with diminutive columns. 

In the canal to the left of the bridge lies a funeral 
barge, the inevitable hearse for a city which contents 
itself with canals for streets. But this barge is more 
than commonly sumptuous. There is a great display 
of carving, and black velvet hanging with silver fringes 
and tassels. And the draperies almost touch the 
water. Beside the barge stands a uniformed verger 
with a long wand. Over this funeral equipage we have 
the broad expanses of the Molo, or quay, and once more 
the tall granite columns, with the lion, and St. Theo¬ 
dore with the crocodile. Beyond them we see a part of 
the long fagade of the Old Library of Sansovino. It 
does not differ from the end which we studied from the 
water, except in the multiplication of the same parts 
the whole length of the piazzetta. Over each column 
rises a statue upon the parapet. But only a small 
part of the sculpture can be seen at this distance, except 
as it adds to the richness of the whole effect. 

Beyond the Old Library, and rising above its roof, 
is the Mint,—not altogether unlike the prisons here at 
our right. 

With the buildings—even the Doges’ Palace—the 
people strolling to and fro in the sunshine are seldom 
troubling themselves. There is more pleasure for them 
in leaning upon the balustrade of the bridge, and looking 
down into the canal, or across toward San Giorgio, or 
in staring at the funeral, bound for an island cemetery 
to the north of the city. No one is leaning over the rail 

281 


No. 82 


ITALY 


Map 


on the other side, to look at the Bridge of Sighs, up the 
narrow canal,—which means that there are no tourists 
in the crowd. 

Moving on to the bridge—the Paglia —we have the 
familiar view of the Bridge of Sighs for ourselves. 

82. The Bridge of Sighs. 

High above the narrow canal a graceful elliptical arch 
carries an enclosed bridge from the Palace of the Doges 
on our left to the prison on the right. The arch is 
adorned with stone heads and reclining figures in the 
spandrils, suggestive of Roman ri\er-gods. The gallery 
is relieved by rustic pilasters, increasing the appear¬ 
ance of strength. There are two square windows, filled 
with marble gratings in a geometrical design. Over 
the cornice rises a curved pediment with its elliptical 
cornice, corresponding to the curve of the arch beneath; 
and then weird volutes, to crown it all. Some sculpture 
has been used in the upper portions of the bridge also,— 
coats of arms against the wall of the gallery, and in 
the pediment a relief of a woman between two lions. 

Probably no bridge in the world connecting the upper 
stories of buildings is half so well known as the Bridge 
of Sighs. It has had many imitators in many different 
countries, but as a rule they have been severely practical, 
and have not indulged, as here, in the fancies of sculp¬ 
ture or the vagaries of architecture. In this bridge the 
character of the whole depends upon the double curves 
of arch and roof, combined with the strong horizontal 
lines above and below the pilasters. The bridge was 
meant to bring the courts in the palace into direct com¬ 
munication with the prison across the canal. But 
there are also prisons within the palace itself, and more 

282 


11 


VENICE 


No. 82 


of them formerly existed up under the leads of the roof, 
so that many prisoners never had occasion to be con¬ 
ducted over this lofty bridge with the pathetic name, 
to the dungeons in this almost savagely sombre building 
on the right. And beyond a question far more senti¬ 
ment has been lavished upon the Bridge of Sighs by 
travelers than its history would actually warrant. 

On our left the wall of the palace shows two distinct 
portions, a simple stone wall for the lower story, with 
substantial brickwork for the upper stories; then a 
mere elaborate fagade. There is no suggestion whatever 
of the Gothic arches of the other fronts of the palace. 
They would be out of place away from the busy life of 
the piazza, and brought here by the dark canal, they 
could have no meaning. There are a half-dozen arches 
beneath and beyond the bridge, and by these the pal¬ 
ace may be entered from a gondola, over green door- 
sills lapped by the ripples of the canal. Here the doges 
came and went in their state barges, enlivening this 
dark canal with all the gay colors which Venice knew 
how to display. 

The lower portion of this fagade is adorned with 
rustic blocks of stone cut in the shape of facets. Above 
are panels and narrow windows set in them. The 
whole front is rich in its decoration and imposing in its 
scale, but no one would compare it for a moment with 
the picturesque Gothic fagades toward the piazzetta 
and the canal. By .comparison this seems a carefully 
studied composition by a Renaissance master; the 
other was a happy inspiration, defiant of rule and reck¬ 
less in construction. 

On beyond this long wall of the Doges’ Palace lies the 
Palace of the Patriarch. For Venice it was not enough 
to have simply an archbishop. It is one more eastern 

283 


No. 83 


ITALY 


Map 


touch that the ecclesiastical ruler of the city should 
have the high-sounding title which was claimed by 
such ancient centres as Constantinople and Alexandria, 
and style himself a patriarch. Sometimes we may see 
him here in his gondola, his arms in brass, with the 
cardinal’s hat in the same material, displayed upon 
either side. And they will tell you that this patriarch 
will some day leave his small palace by St. Mark’s for 
the Vatican at Rome. If he does fulfil this expectation, 
and becomes pope, he will no longer ride in a gondola 
under this bridge, or under that of the Canonica, in 
the distance. He will have shut himself up as a volun¬ 
tary prisoner, after crossing an imaginary Bridge of 
Sighs. 

Leaving our post on the bridge by the Doges’ Palace, 
we walk along the Molo to the piazzetta, up the latter, 
still keeping company with the sturdy columns of the 
palace, to the piazza of S. Marco, the heart of Venice. 

83. The Church of San Marco. 

We pause in the middle of the piazza for the general 
view of the famous and altogether indescribable church 
of St. Mark, the patron saint of Venice. A bewilder¬ 
ment of columns, then broad arches in two stories, 
finally a sky-line of the most picturesque and varied 
description,—pinnacles and statues, and above all, the 
great green domes. It recalls nothing that one has ever 
seen before among churches, and while nearly every 
other cathedral in the world belongs to some one style 
of architecture, or consists of distinct parts in successive 
styles, St. Mark’s seems to have a place all its own* 
Whatever it is., it represents Venice completely, and 

284 


1 


VENICE 


No. 83 


could not be thought of in any other surroundings. 
Reproduced by an ardent admirer in some other coun¬ 
try—or even in any other city of Italy—it would seem 
hopelessly out of keeping with everything else. It is a 
perfect epitome of the history of Venice in its golden age. 

Originally it was not the cathedral of Venice, that 
dignity being reserved for another church—now almost 
neglected—at the extreme east-end of the city. In fact, 
it was not until the time of Napoleon that the throne of 
the patriarch was transferred to St. Mark’s. The sup¬ 
posed remains of the saint had been brought from 
Alexandria to Venice in the ninth century, and the 
shrine erected to receive them was to be a ducal chapel 
close to the palace. St. Mark now became the patron in 
place of St. Theodore, who was relegated to his lofty 
station—like an ancient stylites—upon his column, at 
the foot of the piazzetta. But the chapel of the doges 
was burned in 976, when the people in an insurrection 
against their tyrant set fire to the palace. A new 
church was begun, but the work was carried on slowly 
through the eleventh century. Venice by this time 
stood in close relations with Constantinople, and had an 
extensive eastern commerce. That the new church 
might be richly adorned after the manner of St. Sophia 
and other churches in Constantinople, a law was passed 
forbidding any vessels to return from the Levant without 
bringing marbles or precious stones. The result was 
this extraordinary array of columns and the richest 
coloring imaginable. And a careful study of this end¬ 
less variety of stones would be like a visit to a museum,— 
this column from a church in the capital of the East, 
this one from ancient Athens, this from a Roman 
temple in Syria. Even Arabia and Persia are repre¬ 
sented in these spoils, and countless churches of Asia 
285 


No. 83 


ITALY 


Map 


Minor and the East were plundered that St. Mark’s 
in Venice might be duly adorned. And yet the result of 
all this variety is a harmony which is really marvelous. 
A Romanesque church of brick thus decked itself out in 
all the borrowed finery that could be found. A still 
greater richness was attained in the twelfth century, 
when the porch and facade were rebuilt, almost in their 
present form. 

The lower part of this unique fa£ade appears to con¬ 
sist of nothing but stately portals, so completely is the 
intervening masonry masked by the countless columns 
in a double tier. In the centre a larger and loftier 
arch, elaborately sculptured, rises above the balustrade 
which marks off the upper story from the lower. The 
head of the arch is filled with a mosaic of the Last 
Judgment. But this is a modern work. Beneath there 
are arches retiring within other arches, until the great 
square doorway is reached. On either side is a narrower 
portal, above which Gothic tracery has been added. 
The remaining entrances to right and left are still more 
Oriental in appearance. Beyond these, and extending 
beyond the front, is an additional arch, boldly resting 
upon a single column. That upon our right, in the 
dark shadow of the campanile, reveals a glimpse of 
sunlit wall beyond,—the angle of a chapel, while above 
it we recognize the familiar features of the Doges’ 
Palace even in this small bit, in the corner over its prin¬ 
cipal entrance. 

The upper story of the facade consists of five arches, 
with a few columns to support them, in striking contrast 
with the innumerable shafts below. The central arch 
is filled with one great window, while the face of the 
arch has the richest sculptured relief. Before the win¬ 
dow stand the celebrated horses in bronze,—the only 

286 


11 


VENICE 


No. 83 


horses Venice has to show. They are the trophies of 
an expedition which brought great glory for a time to 
the Venetians, but ultimately hastened the ruin of their 
eastern commerce. The Fourth Crusade led Venice into 
an unexpected attack upon Constantinople. In the 
plundering of the eastern metropolis many works of art 
were carried away. And the doge Dandolo, who com¬ 
manded the forces of Venice, though at the age of 
ninety-five, sent home these bronze horses in 1204. 
They were taken from the Hippodrome of Constantinople, 
having been removed, it is said, from some triumphal 
arch at Rome by Constantine in the fourth century. 
They are probably the work of a Greek artist working 
at Rome, perhaps in the first century. From Venice 
they went to Paris as the spoils of Napoleon, but were 
returned to their old position a few years later, in 1815. 

St. Mark’s was not completed, however, by the 
plunder of Constantinople. It remained for the fif¬ 
teenth century to add the luxuriant Gothic carving 
above the upper arches, together with the pinnacles, 
sheltering sculptured saints and evangelists. St. Mark 
himself stands high above the central arch, his winged 
lion beneath him. 

Before the church rise three tall masts, out of bronze 
pedestals. Here the banners of the Venetian Republic 
formerly floated. 

The piazza swarms with people, and with flocks of 
gray pigeons. It is the centre of life in Venice, especially 
in the evening, when there is music, and the cafes on 
either side spread their tables far out into the open square. 

Nearing the central doorway we pass into the vesti¬ 
bule, itself a marvel of costly decoration, and thence 
into the nave of the church. 


287 


No. 84 


ITALY 


Map 


84. Interior of San Marco. 

We seem to have been transplanted in a moment to 
Constantinople. From the low domes overhead, through 
rings of small windows, the sunlight streams down upon 
gold-mosaics and polished marbles. Eastern richness 
of adornment and warmth of color have banished al¬ 
most every suggestion of Italy and western civilization. 
The impression is not that of a great cathedral, but of a 
court-church or palace-chapel of the doges, decked out 
with royal magnificence. And so it was in fact.* It 
is like a jewel in the most perfect settings, and to this 
effect the relative smallness of the church contributes. 
This nave is less than forty feet in width, or one-half the 
width of St. Peter’s, and the length of the interior 
hardly two hundred feet. The height to the crown 
of the central dome is about ninety-two feet. 

Of the domes there are five in all, one for each of the 
arms of the church, and one for the crossing of the nave 
and transepts. They are strongly suggestive of S. 
Sophia at Constantinople. And they are so low in 
pitch that from without they would scarcely be seen at 
all, if those strange creations in wood and copper, 
which we saw from the piazza, had not been raised 
far above the low-browed masonry that we see from 
within. 

Stout piers sustain the central dome, but they are 
pierced by arches, both below and above, at the level 
of the upper galleries. By these galleries one may 
make a tour of the church to study the mosaics. They 
are borne on arches and columns, like these on our right, 
separating the nave from the transepts. Again, the 
passages are carried in tunnels through the piers. As 
with a mountain railway, it is a succession of tunnels 


* See No. 83. 


288 



11 


VENICE 


No. 84 


and bridges, except that one may linger at will to see 
and enjoy scenery which glows with gold and brilliant 
colors. 

The floor of the church shows large slabs of marble 
enclosed in bands of mosaic in costly stones, but inferior 
to the Cosmati work at Rome*. Owing to the settling 
of the church on its unstable ground the floor is full of 
hills and hollows,—pitfalls for those who wander about 
absorbed in contemplation of the mosaics far above. 

The mosaics furnish the principal feature of the 
interior of St. Mark’s. Sculpture, so lavish and so 
beautiful without, is very sparingly used within. There 
are few figures of saints, except upon the choir-screen, 
and reliefs are seldom to be found. Plain slabs of a 
veined Oriental marble, now browned with age, adorn 
the lower portions of walls and piers. At the height of 
the galleries the mosaic pictures begin, and cover all 
the remaining surface of the walls, together with the 
vaulting and the domes. Some forty-six thousand 
square feet of surface are said to be covered by this 
slow and costly method of decoration. Few portions 
are older than the twelfth century, but from that time 
on the taste of nearly every age is represented in 
the changing character of the designs. Everywhere 
the background is of gold-mosaic, each tiny cube having 
a bit of gold-leaf imbedded beneath its surface. It is 
this which produces that glow of light which seems to 
fill the church. The scenes and figures represented are 
usually from the scriptures,—in the central dome the 
Ascension, in the distant apse Christ enthroned. 

From the nave the choir is separated by steps and a 
marble screen with columns, a crucifix, and statues of 
saints and apostles. On either side of the screen, under 

* See No. 57. 


289 



No. 85 


ITALY 


Map 


the transept arches, are marble pulpits resting upon 
columns. That on the left is double, but the upper 
portion, with a pillared canopy so suggestive of a 
mosque, is the throne of the patriarch. Through the 
screen we can see the baldachin of the high-altar, and 
beneath it the altar-piece in enamel and jewels on gold 
and silver, a Byzantine work of the early twelfth cen¬ 
tury, usually kept under cover. 

From the domes hang chandeliers,—this one in the 
form of a quadruple cross, with many small lamps, and 
a great ball above. Nothing in fact is lacking in St. 
Mark’s to make an interior almost unrivaled in splendor. 
It is a jeweled reliquary, enlarged to the size of a church, 
and redolent with the incense of nine centuries. 

After the Doges’ Palace and San Marco, the Grand 
Canal! By gondola from the foot of the piazzetta we 
soon reach the Academy, the chief picture gallery of 
Venice. From the bridge which spans the canal at 
that point we look eastward. 

85. Franchetti Palace and S. Maria della Salute . 

In the distance on our right is the church of S. Maria 
della Salute, one of the most picturesque churches in 
Venice, although absolutely different from San Marco, 
and the product of a much later age. 

On our left the Franchetti Palace, and other palaces, 
one after another until they are lost in the curve of the 
Grand Canal. Straight before us, beyond the church, 
is the custom-house and the Punta della Salute. The 
low tower bears a globe, and*a gilded statue of Fortune 
serving as a weather-vane. To the left of this and in the 
furthest distance are the trees of the Public Gardens 
290 


11 


VENICE 


No. 85 


in the extreme east-end, far beyond the Riva. But 
that is no longer the Grand Canal, which ends at the 
Punta della Salute and the golden Fortune. The whole 
length of the canal is about two miles, its width from a 
hundred to two hundred feet. In shape it is like a 
letter S, and hence in spite of its inviting breadth, the 
gondolas are always abridging their trips by short cuts 
through the narrow canals, and emerging into the 
Grand Canal again. But the steam-launches ply back 
and forth along this crooked thoroughfare, and of an 
evening it is gay with the lights of gondolas and barges. 

It is far more than a thoroughfare, however; it is an 
almost uninterrupted procession of palaces on both 
sides. In other cities of Italy one seldom finds the 
palaces of the great in any one quarter of the city. 
Often it happens that a famous palace rises above dingy 
homes of the poor. And this is especially true in 
Rome, where an aristocratic family may reside in the 
most neglected regions of the city, provided only its 
social credit is saved by the possession of a venerable 
palace. Here in Venice there are almost no palatial 
homes which are not on the Grand Canal, as though 
nobility and a side-canal would be quite incompatible. 
Thus the old families of Venice have ranged their pal¬ 
aces on this side and that, until no street in the world 
quite rivals the Canal Grande in its impression of high 
birth and princely luxury. They are of all sizes and 
ages, and in different styles of architecture. 

These upon our left are examples of the Gothic, like 
the Doges’ Palace in their essential features, but on a 
more modest scale. The Franchetti Palace, the nearest 
of them, is a type of the Venetian Gothic palace. In 
two stories the central portion has arcades and tracery 
like those of the Doges’ Palace. These were originally 
291 


No. 85 


ITALY 


Map 


open loggias, but have now been enclosed. A balcony 
projects over the entrance, and smaller balconies on 
either side repeat the same motive of a diminutive 
colonnade, while the angle of each balcony is marked 
by a sitting lion. The entrance arch below is pointed, 
and entirely filled by an iron grill, as are also the square¬ 
headed windows on either side. Before the doorway is 
a platform enclosed by a parapet of small columns, 
with steps descending into the water. The gaily decor¬ 
ated piles in front of the palace are painted with the 
family colors, and serve to protect gondolas lying by 
the steps. No Venetian palace is complete without 
these posts ( pali ). The first or principal floor of such a 
palace is at the level of the balconies. Below it is a 
low mezzanine, or intermediate story; below that the 
ground-floor,—or should it be called the “ water-floor ” 
in Venice? It is also characteristic that the front of 
such a palace should be symmetrical, and that the cen¬ 
tral part should receive nearly all the architectural 
adornment. 

The next palace beyond is far less ornate, and later 
alterations have done much to disguise its original ap¬ 
pearance, especially the addition of a plain upper story 
and baroque balconies. Just at the curve of the canal 
an angle of a much larger palace shows itself. The 
Italian flag marks it as the prefecture. But from this 
point of view we can form no idea of the Palazzo Cornaro, 
another work of Sansovino in the sixteenth century. 

Across the canal the dome of S. Maria della Salute 
constantly draws attention to itself, although the body 
of the church is hidden by a palace. Its situation at 
the end of the Grand Canal has made it one of the most 
familiar objects in pictures of Venice.* 


* See No. 89. 


292 



11 


VENICE 


No. 86 


Returning from the bridge to our gondola, we proceed 
up the canal, passing the Palazzo Rezzonico, the home 
of Browning, to the Palazzo Foscari, a Gothic palace of 
the fourteenth century. Entering, we climb to the 
first floor of the palace. 

86 . The Grand Canal, towards the Rialto. 

From the loggia of the Palazzo Foscari, we are look¬ 
ing up the Grand Canal. After a long stretch which is 
comparatively straight, the canal finally sweeps around 
to the left, and disappears from our view just at the 
Rialto. We can see less than one-half of that famous 
bridge in the furthest distance. The rest is lost to 
sight around the bend of the canal. We have before us, 
then, the central portion of the canal, with its succession 
of palaces on either hand. No church relieves with its 
domes or towers the almost unbroken line of palaces. 
A single tower near the Rialto belongs to a church back 
from the canal, while the dome and nave of a much 
larger church, still further away, are those of Sts. John 
and Paul, one of the principal churches of Venice, con¬ 
taining the tombs of the doges. 

Below that distant dome is a conspicuous palace- 
front, in three massive stories. It is the Palazzo 
Grimani, one of the best examples of the Renaissance 
architecture in Venice. Its builder was Sammicheli, 
an eminent military engineer and architect of the six¬ 
teenth century. 

Not far beyond the Palazzo Grimani is a modest house, 
once occupied by the great doge Dandolo (1192-1205), 
but it can scarcely be distinguished at this distance. 

In general the view up or down the Grand Canal is 
less striking than we should have imagined. But the 
explanation is simple. The Venetian palaces have no 
293 


No. 86 


ITALY 


Map 


towers, and few rise very conspicuously above their 
neighbors. All the adornment is lavished upon the 
front, and they are meant to be seen only from close at 
hand. It is from a gondola that they are most im¬ 
pressive, as one passes along from front to front. Even 
the smaller palaces, as seen thus, have their charms, and 
what in the distance, and seen sidewise, appeared un¬ 
promising or uninteresting, is found to be a beautiful 
specimen of the decorative architecture of Venice,—a 
type which survived the artistic revolution of the fif¬ 
teenth and sixteenth centuries. For the Renaissance 
palace often clings to the old features, and the architect 
was satisfied if the details were no longer Gothic, but 
such as sprang from the revived study of ancient build¬ 
ings. 

Right here on our left we have the angle of a Renais¬ 
sance structure, the Palazzo Balbi. The next palace 
(Grimani) in a simple style belongs to the earlier part 
of the same period. Both have the pall, or piles, 
painted in heraldic colors, and as far as the eye can 
reach groups of them follow from palace to palace. To 
the Venetian, at least in former times, the colors at 
once told the story,—there was no need to ask which of 
the noble families occupied that particular house. 

A modern feature of the Grand Canal is a line of 
steamboats with regular stations, now on this side, now 
on that, of the canal. One of these floating stations— 
certainly far from picturesque—is here on our left. 
The next may be seen some distance further up on the 
right, then another on the opposite side. No attempt 
has been made to adapt either the boats or the stations 
to their Venetian surroundings. They are prosaic nine¬ 
teenth-century steamboats and bath-house floats, in 
painful contrast with the graceful forms of the gondolas. 

294 


11 


VENICE 


No. 86 


But they have been accepted as a necessity, and any 
one who has had experience of a down-pour in Venice— 
the wettest place in the world when it does rain—will 
not find it possible to condemn them very strongly. 
And still they strike a discordant note, not literally, 
with their whistles, although that is true enough, but 
by their constant reminder that the glories of Venice 
belong completely to the past. From a dreamland 
where everything is so strikingly different from other 
cities, the steamboat rudely awakens us to the con¬ 
sciousness that many other changes have overtaken 
this city of islands; that most of these celebrated 
palaces have passed out of the hands of the old families; 
that many have been bought by foreigners, especially 
English, while others are now converted into pub¬ 
lic buildings. This one is an antiquity shop, and 
its neighbor perhaps a mosaic factory. All this 
means that Venice must continue to live in the past, her 
eastern commerce long ago ruined, her political position 
gone forever. Yet still she will attract travelers of 
every tongue by the romance which clings to her name, 
and will never depart from her venerable buildings. 
There is but one Venice, even if we may not revive all 
the pageantry which has passed up and down this Grand 
Canal,—the gay barges, large and small, and the famous 
Bucentaur of the doges. 

Once more we take to our gondola, and slowly pass 
in review the double line of palaces until the Rialto is 
reached. 

87, The Rialto . 

Standing on the quay, we have a near view of the 
singular bridge which was so long the only one on the 

*295 


No. 87 


ITALY 


Map 


Grand Canal. A single arch in marble seems merely an 
exaggeration of the little bridges of the small canals. 
But its great width enables it to sustain not merely a 
roadway, but two arcades, with shops and a wide 
central street—for it is very much of a street—though 
never trodden by horses, as indeed its steps would for¬ 
bid, if there were any horses in Venice to exclude. On 
this side of the shops is another passage, guarded by 
a marble balustrade, and the same arrangement is re-, 
peated on the other side of the bridge. In the centre 
are two higher open arches on this side and that, allow¬ 
ing a free view up the Grand Canal, so far as the bend 
in its course allows, or down in the direction of our 
Palazzo Foscari.* 

In its general idea the Rialto must recall the Ponte 
Vecchio at Florencef,—that is, in providing much more 
than a means of crossing, in furnishing space for trade 
to escape from the narrow streets and plant itself at a 
point where all must pass. Here there is no corridor 
overhead connecting a palace on this bank with another 
on that. It is doubtful if Venice would ever have per¬ 
mitted such a thing. Certainly there was no one 
family so superior to the rest of the nobles as the Medici 
at Florence. But here the side passages mark the con¬ 
trast between the mediaeval bridge, with its overhanging 
shops, and the modern. 

The name is derived from Rivoalto, the ancient 
designation of the principal island of Venice, now lost 
among the innumerable islets which are covered by the 
city. As early as the twelfth century there seems to 
have been a bridge of boats at this point. In 1264 a 
bridge was built of wood upon piles, and in 1450 another 

♦See No. 86. 

t See No. 72. 

296 



11 


VENICE 


No. 87 


of the same kind took its place. A stone bridge was 
not erected until 1588-91. The heavy abutments rest 
upon vast masses of piles, twelve thousand in number, 
if we may trust the guide-books. A marble arch of 
seventy-four feet span is in itself a rarity, but 4his one 
is remarkable also for its low pitch and great* width. 
Gliding under it in a gondola one is impressed by the 
Roman massiveness of the masonry, but no Roman 
bridge ever had so extraordinary a form, or carried a 
street bodily over a stream, shops and all. 

The importance of the Rialto was increased by the 
fact that until the middle of the nineteenth century 
no other bridge spanned the Grand Canal. At that 
time two iron bridges were added, one at the railway 
station and one at the Academy.* 

Under the arch of the bridge we see an arcade along 
the quay, while quaint battlements rise over the 
curved roofs of the Rialto. It is the Fondaco de' 
Tedeschi, a warehouse used by the German merchants 
in Venice in former times, now converted into a cus¬ 
tom-house. It is our first suggestion of the commerce 
which was the foundation of Venetian prosperity. 
Nothing is harder to do in the dreamy city of to-day 
than to imagine the activity which once kept these 
quays and warehouses alive with merchants of every 
nation. The East and the West, met in Venice then, 
as they do, for example, in Constantinople now. All 
the rich merchandise of the Levant, brought in 
Venetian ships to this market, was displayed before 
the eyes of the merchants of Italy, Germany, France, 
or even England. And the Rialto was then a name in 
the commercial world, as influential as Wall Street or 
Lombard Street to-day, or the Bourses of Paris, Berlin, 


* See No. 85. 


297 



No. 88 


ITALY 


Map 


and Vienna. Now, unhappily, the trade of the Levant 
has fallen to the other Adriatic city, Trieste, or to 
Genoa, and the merchants and bankers come to the 
Rialto only as tourists to this temple of trade. 

In returning down the Grand Canal we turn aside 
near the Academy into a small canal (rio), past the 
church of S. Trovaso, to the broad Canal della Giudecca. 

88. A Picturesque Canal. 

We look nearly the entire length of this small canal, 
beyond its two white bridges, to the buildings by the 
Grand Canal. 

Here, on our right, the houses do not rise directly 
out of the water, but as often happens in the smaller 
canals, there is a long stretch of what may be called 
sidewalk. It is fenced by a brick parapet capped with 
stone. And a gate is placed where steps descend to the 
water. The walk is uncommonly broad, so that the 
dwellers in these houses have reason to rejoice that they 
are not shut up to a narrow calle, or lane, but have the 
freedom of this embankment along the canal. The 
larger house with the balconies • and the flag-staff is 
something of a palace, and would not be altogether out 
of place among the more modest sort on the Grand 
Canal. It has the pointed windows, and the Gothic 
loggia like the Palazzo Franchetti,* but the balconies 
are of the Renaissance. 

Most of the houses are small and dingy. It is clear 
that this quarter of the city sees little even of the tourist 
life with which Venice has to content itself now in 
place of its old activity. On the left bank is a small 


* See No. 85. 


298 



11 


VENICE 


No. 88 


church, unknown to fame. It is the church of S. 
Trovaso, with a front which recalls certain features of 
S. Maria della Salute, and a simple belfry. In front 
of the church is a green spot of grass—a rarity along 
the canals of Venice—and a few trees endeavoring to 
see their own reflections in the still waters below. 
Close by on our left is a lumber-shed, perhaps for the 
repair of gondolas. For this peaceful quarter of the 
city seems to be the favorite haunt of the superannuated 
gondola. Here they are laid up for repairs, to set forth 
again in fresh black paint upon their endless cruises 
among the hundred islands of Venice. Here they come 
at last to be stripped of their iron beaks and brass orna¬ 
ments, and to be put out of commission for the last 
time,—a sad day for the gondolier. 

Other boats also come here for repairs, among them 
the broad freight-boats, like this one beneath the parapet 
upon which we are leaning. Even these have the high 
bow and stern, and satisfying curves, such as belong by 
right to every form of Venetian craft. This particular 
boat seems to be as much in need of paint as the canal 
of its morning sweeping. Even after that process has 
been performed in the usual perfunctory manner, and 
straw and orange-peels, and many things less desirable 
to mention, have been removed by long brooms from the 
bow of a boat, the waters of the smaller canals are apt 
to be far from inviting. Unluckily there is no tide to 
sweep through these narrow channels and carry every¬ 
thing out to sea. The tide in the Mediterranean is only 
to be observed by the closest attention, and is quite 
unnoticed as a rule, even here at the head of the Adriatic, 
where the minute rise and fall is more perceptible than 
anywhere else. With an Atlantic tide Venice would be 
more effectually cleansed, but the whole appearance 
299 


No. 89 


ITALY 


Map 


of the city would be different, if provision had to be 
made for a rise of even four or five feet. High walls 
and long flights of steps at low tide would utterly spoil 
that impression of a city belonging completely and abso¬ 
lutely to the sea, and living in the friendly embrace of 
the mastering element. 

Along the wide channel between the Giudecca and 
the city proper we return by gondola to the piazzetta. 
Thence on foot to the campanile, which we climb, not 
by stairs after the manner of commonplace towers, but 
by a series of inclined planes. At each angle of the 
tower the incline takes a new direction, winding around 
and around until a flight of stairs near the top brings us 
to a great belfry swarming with bells of all sizes. 

8g. Venice from the Campanile . 

Across the mouth of the Grand Canal we are looking 
over the Punta della Salute to the long narrow island of 
the Giudecca, and out into open water, or what appears 
to be open water. It is not the Adriatic, however, 
which lies further to the left beyond the long narrow 
island of Malamocco and the Lido. In this south¬ 
westerly direction the lagoon stretches away for fifteen 
miles, all the way to Chioggia, and to our view it seems 
like the sea itself. 

It is only from the campanile that one fully appre¬ 
ciates the fact that Venice is not only made up of small 
islands, but also has a completely insular position at 
some distance from the low coast-line. In entering the 
city by rail over the long causeway we began to realize 
this fact, but the view was too limited to permit of a full 
understanding of the strange situation. From this 

300 


11 


VENICE 


No. 89 


height the small canals are lost to view among the 
houses, and only the larger canals appear at all. The 
hundred islands and more seem at once to be reduced 
to three or four. 

But to take what lies immediately before us,—we are 
looking down upon the roofs of the buildings which 
occupy the southern side of the Piazza of St. Mark. 
It is the Procuratie Nuove, once the residence of some 
of the “procurators,” of whom there were nine in all, 
the chief magistrates of Venice after the doge. The long 
building, with its main front towards the piazza, belongs 
to the latter part of the sixteenth century. It is divided 
by a whole series of courts, and our present view of it is 
limited to tile-roofs and chimneys, and flat roofs walled 
in for the drying of clothes. The other front looks 
down into its gardens, extending to the water. This is 
now the Royal Palace, but as the king is seldom long in 
Venice, it is rarely thought of in connection with the 
court, and still remains a monument of the old Republic, 
far more than a reminder of the new kingdom with which 
the destinies of Venice are now united. 

To the right of the gardens are several palaces on the 
Grand Canal, most of them now serving as hotels. Over 
these, and across the canal rises the picturesque mass of 
S. Maria della Salute, which we have already seen in 
passing, and from the bridge by the Academy.* As a 
church it seems to have nothing in common with St. 
Mark’s, nor could it keep company with the Doges’ 
Palace. In architecture it represents the seventeenth 
century (1631-82), and the baroque period; but Lon- 
ghena, its architect, rose far above the most of his con¬ 
temporaries. The dome is buttressed by huge volutes, 
each bearing a statue. A smaller dome and two slender 

* See No. 85. 


301 



No. 89 


ITALY 


Maps 


towers support the principal dome behind. The porch 
suggests a Roman triumphal arch. But everywhere 
the classical forms have been treated with the utmost 
freedom. Originality and picturesqueness were the 
chief aims of the builder, and in these he was eminently 
successful. Whatever is blamed by the architects is 
praised by the painters, with whom the church has been 
a favorite subject. At all events it makes good its claim 
to be one of the chief landmarks of the Grand Canal. 

To the left of S. Maria della Salute, the tall building 
is a seminary for priests. The low triangular structure 
terminating in a square tower with porches and 
crowned by a ball and a figure of Fortune, is the Dogana 
di Mare, or custom-house for imports by sea. Hence 
the many barges on this side and the vessels at anchor 
on the other. 

Beyond the last, stretches the long line of the Giudecca, 
showing us at this distance only its houses, a church, 
and a factory-chimney or two, while concealing the 
gardens which are its chief feature. The church 
directly over the Punta della Salute is the Redentore, one 
of the later works (1576) of Palladio, the master of 
Longhena, and himself the last of the architects belong¬ 
ing to the Renaissance period. A lofty fa£ade, a dome, 
a slender tower,—this is all that can be made out at 
this distance. It is well known among architects, 
all the more because Palladio built comparatively few 
churches. 

What one sees from the campanile, however, is not 
single sights to be pointed out and described. It is 
rather one great romance of the sea that the eye reads 
here in everything. It is difficult to close the book, 
and say farewell to Venice from her lofty bell-tower, 
which we may never ascend again,—to return to the 
302 


11, 1 


VERONA 


No. 90 


prosaic world where cities are on land, and streets are 
streets, and palaces less stately, and no public buildings 
like the Doges’ Palace and St. Mark’s. 

In leaving Venice we recross the long bridge of 
arches, more than two miles in length, and are once more 
upon the mainland. To Verona is a journey of about 
seventy miles, through a level country, while the Alps 
keep approaching upon the right. 


VERONA 

Arrived at Verona, we soon find ourselves in the 
presence of its chief antiquity, the well-known amphi¬ 
theatre. 

go. The Amphitheatre, 

We have climbed to this roof in order to look north¬ 
ward over the enclosing wall of the amphitheatre, into 
the great cavea beyond. Tier after tier, the seats in their 
wide elliptical Curves descend steadily, as though into 
some vast crater, until they are lost to our view long 
before the arena is reached. The stairs dividing the 
seats into sections can be seen, emerging from the 
narrow openings by which the upper part of the house 
was reached. The whole appearance is as though ruin 
had overtaken the higher portions of the amphitheatre, 
so that the seats rise to the very top of the wall, without 
a portico, or other finish, at the top. And looking more 
closely on the further side, at the left, we discover 
several arches which appear to belong rather to some 
other building, than to the amphitheatre itself. In 
reality they are all that remains of the outermost ellipse 

303 


No. 90 


ITALY 


Map 


enclosing the entire structure, and carrying the seats 
up to a much higher level. Recalling the Colosseum at 
Rome,* the case was somewhat similar; but there the 
outer wall still exists for about one-half its length, 
while here a mere fragment remains. It is enough, 
however, to enable us to reconstruct the amphitheatre 
in imagination, and to explain to ourselves the crude 
and unfinished appearance of these arches before us. 
They were, in other words, interior arches, to be seen 
only from the corridors, and not destined to form any 
part of the exterior, which must have been far more 
imposing with its three stories of open arches, and then, 
perhaps, another story of blank wall, or pierced with a 
few windows only, after the fashion of the Colosseum. 
The corbels, or brackets for masts, by means of which 
an awning was spread, to protect the spectators from 
the sun, may be seen over those highest arches in the 
distance. In all important respects then the amphi¬ 
theatre of provincial Verona was meant to rival the 
great Flavian Amphitheatre at the capital. Fate has 
dealt with it more kindly, in preserving at least a large 
part of the seats, and frequent restorations and renewals 
have made it possible to use the amphitheatre for spec¬ 
tacular performances, even down to the present 
time. 

In dimensions this belongs among the larger Roman 
amphitheatres. The highest part of the wall in that one 
existing fragment reaches a height of more than a hun¬ 
dred feet. The long diameter is some five hundred feet, 
the short diameter four hundred,—figures which will 
mean more if it is understood that they give this amphi¬ 
theatre a length equal to the breadth of that at Rome. 
It is then considerably smaller than the Colosseum, but 


* See No. 37. 


304 



1 


VERONA 


No. 90 


appreciably larger than the amphitheatre of Pompeii,* 
and is typical of many Roman towns in different parts 
of the empire, as for example, Pola, near Trieste, on the 
eastern side of the Adriatic, and Nimes and Arles, in 
southern France. 

As for its history, it was built too late to have been 
memorable in the persecutions of the Christians, except 
perhaps the last, that under Diocletian, who was himself 
the builder of this amphitheatre about 290 A. D. What 
it has lacked in authentic history has been made good 
in legend. For in the mediaeval legends of Germany, 
this amphitheatre figured as the home of “ Dietrich of 
Bern,” the mythical counterpart of the real Theodoric, 
who ruled over his Ostrogoths—and most of Italy as 
well—from Ravenna. In legend his capital became 
Verona (Bern), and his palace this impossible residence 
for any but a creature of fancy. Yet it was in these 
strange ways that the mighty works of Roman builders 
took possession of the northern imagination. 

Besides its ancient amphitheatre, Verona boasts of 
many churches and palaces. Tall towers rise above the 
house-tops, and the spires are altogether different from 
any towers we have been seeing at Venice. They mark 
our approach to Lombardy, and the influences of the 
North. A wall with square towers climbs the hill in the 
distance,—a reminder of Verona's historic importance 
as a fortress, guarding one of the chief approaches to 
Italy, that is, the route which crosses the Brenner Pass, 
and follows the valley of the Adige. We seem to be 
nearing the frontiers of Italy, and to be casting furtive 
glances up the Alpine valleys in the direction of the 
Tyrol. 


* See No. 15. 


305 



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ITALY 


Map 


From the Colosseum of Verona to its Forum from 
the amphitheatre to the Piazza delle Erbe— is but a 
short distance, through narrow streets plentifully 
strewn with palaces. 

9 j. Piazza delle Erbe. 

We have left the ancient Verona for the mediaeval 
and modern. And yet this fruit and vegetable-market 
of the present city is said to occupy the site of the 
ancient market-place, or Forum. No trace, however, 
remains to remind one of the Roman town, or of its 
chief glory, Catullus, the most inspired of Roman lyric 
poets. All that is before us is characteristic of the 
Italian city of the North, in the centuries from the 
fourteenth to the seventeenth. 

At the further end of the square is a tall tower, with 
a singular roof, surrounded by forked battlements. It 
is the tower of the Municipio, though the town-hall is 
elsewhere, and a neighboring square, the Piazza dei 
Signori, is the centre of official life in Verona. Adjoin¬ 
ing the tower is a palace of the seventeenth century, 
the Palazzo Trezza (Maffei), with heavy arches below, 
and wildly fantastic ornament in the upper stories. 
It was the old-time custom to paint the palace-fronts 
in fresco. Of that mode of decoration some traces re¬ 
main in this Piazza della Erbe, but most of the buildings 
have lost their high colors. 

In front of the Palazzo Trezza stands a column, like 
that in the piazzetta at Venice, bearing the winged lion 
of St. Mark, in memory of the centuries in which Verona 
was subject to the doges of Venice. 

The whole length of the square is occupied by market- 
stalls, each with its huge umbrella, planted in a loaded 
box, and bargaining is going on briskly beneath their 
306 


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No. 91 


shelter. Out of this mushroom-growth a few more 
enduring structures rise into view,-first a slender shrine 
upon a tall shaft at our end of the piazza. Then comes 
a small canopy, borne by four columns,—the Tribuna , 
where judgment used to be pronounced in days when 
there was little which was not done in the publicity of 
the market-place. Almost over the Tribuna appears a 
fountain-statue of Verona, the personification of the 
city. 

Of the buildings on the left side of the square the 
most conspicuous, by reason of its columns and its 
variegated arches, is the Casa dei Mercanti, an exchange 
of the time of Dante (1301). The other houses have 
less to attract notice in themselves, but in their 
variety they blend into a picturesqueness which makes 
this piazza a favorite haunt with all who come to Ver¬ 
ona. It is so irregular and so haphazard, that it seems 
perfectly to represent the mosaic history of the city. 
Back of it all lies the old Forum, trodden by the foot of 
Julius Caesar and Catulhis. Visions of Ostrogoth and 
Lombard and Frank are not so readily called to mind, 
but the Casa dei Mercanti , there on the left, brings back 
the most brilliant period of the rule of the Scaligers. It 
was new in the time of Can Grande della Scala, who 
subdued other cities, Padua and Vicenza, and re¬ 
ceived Dante in exile. Within another century Verona 
had fallen into the power, first of Milan, and then of 
Venice. It was never again to recover its independent 
position. 

And still this market-place remains, to suggest the 
old-time importance of a city which once exerted an in¬ 
fluence of its own. This it continued to do in art, long 
after all political significance had passed away. Few 
names in the time of the Renaissance deserve to be 
307 


No. 91 


ITALY 


Map 


better known than that of Fra Giocondo of Verona, 
the scholar and discoverer of lost manuscripts, and editor 
of the one ancient book upon architecture, that of 
Vitruvius. The pious friar who could build a bridge 
over the Seine at Paris, and superintend the works at 
St. Peter’s at Rome, was one of the most versatile men 
in an age when every man was thought able to do many 
things, and do them all well. Verona has reason to 
honor her Fra Giocondo, almost more than the dis¬ 
tinguished painter Paul Veronese, who belongs rather 
to Venice than to his native place. 

The next stage in our journey carries us from Verona 
to Milan. Some ninety miles of distance are to be 
traversed, through the broad and fertile plains of the 
Po, with the Alps in plain sight on the right, and the 
Apennines blue and dim upon the left. We skirt the 
southern shore of the beautiful Lake Garda for a time, 
enjoying the wild Alpine scenery of its northern back¬ 
ground. Upon the narrow tongue of land, projecting 
into the lake from the south, lay the villa of Catullus. 
It is a region of fortresses and historic battle-fields, 
memorable in the struggles of 1859, and the victo¬ 
ries over the Austrians at Solferino and Magenta. 
The rest of the journey carries us through Brescia, 
and over long stretches of fruitful plain, to the Lom¬ 
bard capital. 


MILAN 

For our first view of the cathedral of Milan, we climb 
to the roof of a building on the square, to gain the full 
effect of the upper portions, so easily lost to sight in 
any view from the piazza below. 

308 


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No. 92 


92. The Cathedral. 

It is one mass of white marble, from foundations to 
the gilt statue which crowns the spire, three hundred 
and sixty feet above the ground. No other material 
was permitted to mar this dazzling hiteness,—a white¬ 
ness which becomes more resplendent as the eye passes 
from the lower walls, in the shadow of projecting but-, 
tresses, up to the soaring pinnacles in the full strength £ 
of undiluted sunlight, against the brightness of the soft 
clouds. There is a steady increase in brilliance as one 
looks away from earth to the delicate lace-work pro¬ 
jecting itself against the sky. If one could completely 
disregard form, and for the time think only of color, of 
the play of light and shade upon the purest and most 
ethereal of substances, the cathedral of Milan might 
still be enjoyed with the same innocent rapture with 
which it used to be admired by all travelers, and almost 
worshiped by the Milanese themselves. 

But however unschooled may have been our judg¬ 
ments of architectural form, we have not studied the 
churches and palaces of Rome and Florence and Venice, 
without acquiring a certain standard, which may now 
be applied to this duomo of Milan. 

Its great size is indeed impressive. The total 
length is about four hundred and ninety feet, or 
a little less than the longer diameter of the amphi¬ 
theatre at Verona.* At the transepts the width is about 
two hundred and eighty feet. These dimensions give . 
the cathedral of Milan a floor-space second only to St. 
Peter’s at Rome and the cathedral of Seville in Spain. 

But one has merely to recall the fagades of the greater 
Gothic cathedrals of France and Germany and England, 
to feel that the architects of Milan have almost com- 


* See No. 90. 


309 



No. 92 


ITALY 


Map 


pletely failed to clothe this enormous interior with the 
external forms which would adequately express what 
is within. 

As one might suspect from the first casual glance, 
the duomo of Milan was not the product of a single mind, 
or even the work of a few masters, each laboring in the 
spirit of his predecessor. More than fifty architects 
are said to have been employed in the first twenty years. 
Still worse, there was constant wrangling between the 
foreign and native builders. For unhappily Milan was 
not destined to raise her own cathedral with that local 
pride and enthusiasm which gave many smaller cities 
churches of the greatest beauty, erected by native 
masters. Freedom and patriotic spirit had been 
crushed out by the tyrants of the Visconti family. One 
of the most selfish of this brood was Gian Galeazzo 
Visconti, who ordered the erection of the cathedral in 
1386, and instead of contributing himself, as an art- 
loving tyrant might well have done, he enforced gifts 
from the people with merciless rigor. Thus the cath¬ 
edral of Milan, while it has become in time the pride of 
the city, was in the beginning a monument to its long- 
suffering endurance of the Visconti. The duke’s in¬ 
difference to his own people showed itself also in the 
preference given to German and French architects. It 
is true that the Gothic style was far more perfectly 
understood in the North than in Italy, but these foreign 
architects were constantly changed, and out of an in¬ 
definite series of compromises came this unique cath¬ 
edral, which is neither northern, nor yet Italian, and 
almost completely devoid of anything which could sug¬ 
gest Lombardy. 

Centuries passed before the church approached com¬ 
pletion. The central lantern—a lofty dome as seen 

310 


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MILAN 


No. 92 


from within—was not completed until 1775. Another 
generation had passed before the opening of the nine¬ 
teenth century saw the completion of the fagade—but 
in what a mingling of styles! Gothic tracery was 
scorned, or relegated to the upper windows, while the 
five doorways and the great windows above them were 
calmly inserted in a debased form of the Renaissance. 
No one appears to have protested at the time, but, now 
that tastes have changed again, it is proposed to re¬ 
move this entire fagade, and replace it by a new one, in 
complete harmony with the cathedral. At the same 
time the huge barn-like gable, ill-concealed by but¬ 
tresses and lavish ornament, will no doubt give way to 
some more beautiful sky-line. 

In fact it is the crowning fault of the Milan cathedral 
that ornament has been applied in such excess that 
there is no resting-place for the eye, and if all this 
filigree-work should be removed,' the bare outlines of 
the structure itself would be found to have no beauty 
whatever. Proportion of the parts and harmony of 
the whole, often perfectly attained in the simplest 
Gothic church of northern countries, are almost com¬ 
pletely sacrificed here, in what might have been one of 
the noblest cathedrals in the world. For the greater 
and more enduring qualities of their art the jealous 
architects of the Visconti and the Sforzas have given us 
a wild revelry of ornament, glittering in the white¬ 
ness of pure marble, but incapable of blinding us 
to the grave defects of a work once extravagantly 
praised. 

Winding stairs from the south transept bring us to 
the roof of the cathedral. 


311 


No. 93 


ITALY 


Map 


93 . Pinnacles and Flying Buttresses of the Cathedral. 

We are looking down upon the roofs of the side-aisles 
on the south side of the nave, our view bounded on the 
right by the clerestory and its pinnacles. It is a forest 
of slender marble spires that we have beneath and 
above us. The roofs themselves are almost completely 
hidden from view. They also are of marble slabs, no 
other material being anywhere employed. This, in 
itself, quite apart from the sculptures, gives an im¬ 
pression of lavishness which few cathedrals can rival. 
The roof of the outer side-aisle is lost amid the wealth 
of detail. That of the inner side-aisle may be seen 
through the flying buttresses. It is bounded by a broad- 
topped parapet with rich Gothic carving. Behind that 
parapet one may walk from end to end of the roof. 
With the roof of the nave above it is much the same, 
except that the balustrade there blossoms out into 
countless Gothic pediments, and there are no but¬ 
tresses to obstruct the view,—nothing but the white ex¬ 
panse of marble tiles, in striking contrast with the light 
and airy pinnacles. 

But these pinnacles and the buttresses deserve 
special study. As in the typical Gothic cathedral of 
the North, the vaulted ceiling of the nave is far too 
massive to be borne by the piers beneath. It was 
therefore customary to provide props, or buttresses, 
in masonry, to take a part of the thrust of the vaulting, 
and prevent the walls of the clerestory from being 
pushed out. But as such supports could not be solid, 
without bearing too heavily upon the aisles beneath, the 
French architects had adopted this method of the flying 
buttress. In its essence this is the half of a pointed 
arch, exerting a constant pressure against a pier or wall 
above, and in its turn firmly supported from below, 

312 


1 


MILAN 


No. 93 


often by another flying buttress. And such a system, 
purely constructive in its aim, proved capable of adorn¬ 
ment. Without disguising their real uses, the but¬ 
tresses add to that aspiring effect which is so marked 
in the Gothic architecture, since nearly every line con¬ 
ducts the eye by stages from the ground to the topmost 
spire. 

Here the buttresses are unusually complicated, being 
in each case double, and linked together by a slender 
pier. On each side the flying buttress is adorned with 
a lace-work of tracery, often serving as a parapet for a 
flight of steps ascending upon the ridge of the buttress. 
Thus the strength of these thrusting arches is disguised, 
and they are made to appear an ornamental feature 
rather than a positive necessity. 

So the pinnacles, which in such a system serve the 
practical purpose of adding weight where weight is 
needed, and thus increase the stability of the whole, 
have here taken on a wild and luxuriant growth, until 
all limits of extravagance seem to have been passed. 
They bud with diminutive pinnacles up and down their 
stems; they blossom in canopies without number; and 
the full flower is always a statue. Larger statues stand 
upon dizzy heights at the summit of each of these pin¬ 
nacles. And for every one of these that stand forth 
boldly, as though poised upon the tip of a needle in 
marble, there are many more that lurk more modestly 
in their quiet corners, content to remain unseen. One 
is not surprised in the end to learn that the total num¬ 
ber of such statues and statuettes exceeds two thousand. 
What a Greek or a Roman would have said of sculpture 
perched a couple of hundred feet above the ground, may 
be left unexpressed. The schoolman of the middle 
ages might have been quickened to fresh zeal in his 

313 


No. 93 


ITALY 


Map 


eternal debate as to how many angels could stand on the 
point of a needle. And yet, when all has been said 
against this excessive ornament, one still finds a certain 
charm in its very exuberance. Here at least there was 
no counting of the cost, nothing omitted because it 
could not be seen from the ground. It is to be judged— 
not too severely—as a kind of fairy-land in itself, solid¬ 
ified, as dreams rarely are, into the purest of marble, 
and held in suspense far above the house-tops of Milan. 

The city itself has not been a city of dreams. Under 
its old name, Mediolanium, it flourished as the chief 
town in the plains of the Po, and by the age of Diocletian 
and Constantine it had become one of the capitals of 
the Empire. Even the inroads of the barbarians, and 
the total destruction of the city by the Goths, in 539, 
did not prevent Milan from resuming its old position, 
and becoming in the middle ages one of the greatest 
cities in the world. Conflicts with the German Roman 
emperors led to destruction once more at the hands of 
Frederick Barbarossa, in 1162. With the fourteenth 
century, it became subject to the enlightened tyranny 
of the Visconti, who were succeeded in the next century 
by the Sforzas, under whom Milan became one of the 
chief centres of Renaissance art. Leonardo da Vinci, 
with his pupils, in painting, and Bramante in architect¬ 
ure, gave Milan a position of the first importance in the 
arts. Under Spanish rule, and then under the Austrians, 
Lombardy languished, until the war of 1859 brought 
about liberation from foreign control, and union with 
the new Italy. A new period of prosperity began for 
Milan, a time of great growth in every direction. It is 
no longer a city which dreams of its past. The busy 
present, in this great commercial and manufacturing 
centre, now absorbs all attention, except as we escape 
314 


CERTOSA DI PAVIA 


No. 94 


from the noisy life of its streets and arcades, to the 
still heights of this cathedral roof. 

Excursions from Milan carry us first southward, to 
visit the Certosa of Pavia, and then in a northwesterly 
direction to Lago Maggiore. 

The Certosa lies between Milan and Pavia, five miles 
north of the city from which it takes its name, and about 
seventeen miles from Milan. It is a flat country, often 
flooded for the cultivation of rice, which is here the 
principal crop. 


CERTOSA DI PAVIA 

Driving from the station, around the extensive group 
of buildings which once belonged to the convent, we 
reach the vestibule, and passing through into the court, 
are confronted by the famous fagade. 

94. Facade of the Certosa. 

f 

This great church was begun within a decade after 
the duomo of Milan, under the orders of the same duke, 
Gian Galeazzo Visconti, but while the interior is Gothic, 
the pointed arch was almost entirely banished from the 
exterior, and the fagade is one of the most celebrated 
works of the Italian Renaissance. 

Begun about a century after the church, this elab¬ 
orate front represents the work of many hands, and 
controversy still busies itself with the question to whom 
the chief honor belongs. Among the numerous archi¬ 
tects is named the painter Borgognone, and it has been 
thought that the lower and more imaginative portion 
may well be ascribed to him. Painters certainly were 

315 


No. 94 


ITALY 


Map 


often called away from their brushes to design buildings, 
and the spirit of the painter seems here to show itself 
beyond all question in the thousand fanciful details 
which adorn, or rather compose, this unique frontis¬ 
piece. No Gothic fa 9 ade was ever more completely a 
picture-book in stone. 

To begin with, the foundation is adorned with the 
history of Rome, as represented by medallion-portraits 
of her emperors, not without the suggestion that all 
later Italian history rests upon a Roman basis. Then 
came heavy basement-mouldings,—a Gothic feature, 
retained even in this triumph of the new style. Above 
these a series of sculptured reliefs is carried from side 
to side, framed with delicate pilasters and a classic en¬ 
tablature. The scenes represented in these marble 
pictures are drawn in part from the Bible, and in part 
from the life of the Visconti tyrant. Each buttress 
breaks the series of reliefs with a statue in a niche. 

The buttresses are once more a survival from Gothic 
modes of building, and yet the architects of the new 
period did not hesitate to make them principal features 
in their Renaissance fa 9 ade. They are further empha¬ 
sized by heroic statues, rising one above the other to 
the highest cornice above. At the angles double but¬ 
tresses, with double tiers of statues, support canopied 
pinnacles. 

These marked vertical lines in the fa 9 ade are crossed 
by horizontal lines of even greater emphasis. For the 
old arcades of the Lombard churches in the Roman¬ 
esque period, used with such effect on the exterior of 
this church by its Gothic builders, were here employed 
again, but in an altered form, to suit the revived classi¬ 
cal taste. The slender shafts in these beautiful arcades 
have given way to the Roman piers, masked by pilasters 
316 


1 


CERTOSA DI PAVIA 


No. 94 


bearing the entablature. The upper lines of the lower 
arcade divide the facade, at about one-half its height, 
into two very distinct parts, of which the lower reveals 
that character of the painter in architecture, of which we 
werespeaking in connection with the name of Borgognone. 

Of this older portion the central features are a single 
portal, and the great windows on either side. The door¬ 
way has paired Corinthian columns, but an arch with 
the richest adornment has taken the place of a classical 
pediment. Still more ornate are the square-headed 
windows, framed in with reliefs and medallions, and 
inlay of colored marbles, until flat spaces seem com¬ 
pletely banished. In the middle of each window 
stands a delicate candelabrum-shaft supporting round 
arches. And above the cornices of these windows fan¬ 
tastic sculpture assumes the form and functions of a 
pediment. The whole impression of one of these win¬ 
dows, apart from the statues on either side, is as though 
the imaginative architecture which the house-decorators 
of Rome and Pompeii used to paint upon the walls, had 
at last been realized in marble. 

Above the principal arcade the ideas of the painter 
seem to have yielded to the soberer thoughts of the 
architect. The round window in its half-classical 
framework seems severity itself, by contrast with all 
that we have been observing below. Panels take the 
place of reliefs, and every form is restrained. How the 
highest part of the unfinished fa£ade was to have been 
completed, it is difficult to imagine. The upper ar¬ 
cade is higher than the roof of the church, and it can 
scarcely have been the intention of the architects to 
add much more than a group of graceful pinnacles. 

The convent to which this sumptuous church be¬ 
longed was of the aristocratic Carthusian order, which 
317 


No. 95 


ITALY 


Map 


was highly favored by the dukes of Milan. Its wealth 
grew and its buildings expanded, until no convent in 
Italy could equal it in the luxury of its appointments. 
This wonderful fagade correctly suggests the wealth of 
artistic works contained within the church, among them 
the tombs of some of the Visconti. Nowhere surely 
did the pride of a great monastic establishment express 
itself in terms at once so artistic and so impressive. 
And nowhere in Italy does the first flower of the Ren¬ 
aissance bloom with more tropical luxuriance. 

L,AGO MAGGIORJE 

A second excursion from Milan carries us a distance 
of some fifty miles, to the foot of the Alps. From 
Laveno, on the eastern shore of Lago Maggiore , we 
cross by boat to Pallanza, and thence across another 
arm of the lake to the Borromean Islands and the town 
of Stresa. Walking a short distance to the west of 
Stresa, we have the view over the islands and the 
lake. 


95. Isola Bella and Pallanza. 

Straight before us lies Isola Bella , the best-known 
member of the group. The beauty from which it 
derives its name is not, however, that of situation, or 
of natural advantages—although it is not devoid of 
these—but of the artificial villa and the landscape-gar¬ 
dener. At the right, the southern end of the island, is a 
marvelous series of terraces, in imitation, presumably, 
of the hanging gardens of Babylon. They rise one 
above another to the height of a hundred feet. This 
formal paradise was contrived in the seventeenth century 
on a spot where there had been nothing but unproductive 

318 


1 


LAGO MAGGIORE 


No. 95 


rock. But if the taste of that time ran to every con¬ 
ceivable form of artificiality in gardening, the Count 
Borromeo, who first established himself upon the island, 
had still a love of Nature which led him to plant trees 
in the greatest profusion. In this favored spot, cared 
for without regard to expense, for more than two cen¬ 
turies, these groves have flourished with all the rich 
foliage and tempting fruits of a semi-tropical climate. 
At this distance, however, we can see only the dark 
green mass, and are left to imagine the orange and lemon 
trees, with golden fruit and white blossoms at the same 
time on every branch; the laurels and magnolias and 
oleanders are also lost to view, even in so diminutive a 
wood. 

From the stiffness of the terraces we can readily sup¬ 
ply all the statues and vases and balustrades and grot¬ 
toes, which were so necessary to the Italian garden. 
Here, however, its situation upon an island, of which it 
claims almost complete possession, gives this garden a 
distinction of its own, to which must be added the views 
in all directions, especially towards the Alps. 

The villa at the north end of the island is of great size. 
There the princely owners have gathered a collection 
of paintings, and indulged a taste for palatial decora¬ 
tions. The family is an ancient one, having possessed 
these islands for six hundred years. It has also pro¬ 
duced more than one archbishop of Milan; the best 
known is San Carlo Borromeo, who was canonized within 
a century after his death (1584). 

Over Isold Bella lies another islet of the group, Isold 
Madre ,—a mass of trees about a huge white villa. It 
too has a terraced garden, and a profusion of all things 
green or flowering, but the villa is seldom, if ever, in¬ 
habited. 


319 


No. 95 


ITALY 


Map 


To the right of I sola Madre, in the distance, is the 
Httle town of Pallanza, with its villas and hotels along 
the shore of the lake. Behind the town white villages 
climb the heights, in the midst of densely wooded 
slopes. 

Mountains fill the whole background of the view as we 
look over these picturesque islands and the lake. Near 
the middle of this long panorama of Alpine ridges, and 
directly over the centre of Isola Bella , we may make 
out a chain of distant mountains, clad in snow, but 
dimly seen beneath these clouds. It is the crowning 
touch to the scenery of the Italian lakes,—the eternal 
snows of the Alps, always in sight, while the lower slopes 
are green with the trees of warm and hospitable regions, 
and the blue lake itself burns beneath an almost trop¬ 
ical sun. Nothing could be more fruitful than these 
sunny shores,—an endless succession of gardens and orch¬ 
ards, such as this at our feet, where the two boys with 
the quaint baskets on their backs stand and talk, 
indifferent to the rare view, so old and familiar to them. 
One wonders how it must seem to have been born and 
brought up in such a paradise,—and then to spend one’s 
days in busily forgetting it all. 

Descending through the gardens to the shore of the 
lake, we enjoy a nearer view along its western margin. 

96. Z,ago Maggiore, the Western Shore. 

The view is much more limited. Instead of the 
broad sweep over the open lake and its islands, to a 
town on the opposite bank, we have here a quiet corner, 
in which the work of man is insignificant, so that we 
can devote ourselves without distraction to the pure 
enjoyment of Nature. 


320 


1 


LAGO MAGGIORE 


No. 96 


It is a peaceful bay, opening out into the western arm 
of the lake. As the eye follows the line of the shore 
there are few villas to interrupt the green foliage cloth¬ 
ing the lower slopes. The highway loses itself com¬ 
pletely among woods and orchards. To the right more 
buildings appear over the tree-tops, and one may even 
suspect that some modest village is lurking there. 
And so it is,—the village of Baveno, with hotels for stran¬ 
gers, and boats to Isold Bella , and a diligence as often 
as twice a day to Gravellona. There, beyond these 
gray rocks, and in fact beyond the western limit of the 
lake, the Simplon railway passes through Gravellona, 
and thus after all this paradise is kept in communication 
with the noisy world outside. 

The bare hills above Baveno, displaying their rugged 
granite masses—the lower rounded hill on the right, and 
the more forbidding mountain on the left—are a source 
of wealth to the village, and have sent its fame abroad, 
as columns and blocks of granite have been carried 
hence to Milan, and even to Rome. From these quarries 
came the beautiful soft gray columns of the new St. 
Paul’s-outside-the-Walls at Rome.* They were first 
transported on barges down the lake and its outlet, the 
river Ticino, past Pavia, to the Po. 

Lago Maggiore belongs, in fact, completely to the 
Ticino, which rises far away to the north, among the high 
Alps about the St. Gothard Pass, and flows through the 
lake to its southern end, where it assumes again the 
quality of a river. Its upper valley affords a route 
for one of the most famous of the Alpine railways, the 
St. Gothard; the lower course provides a boundary— 
now unimportant—between Lombardy and Piedmont, 
until its waters lose themselves in the Po, not far below 


* See No. 66. 


321 



No. 96 ITALY Ma P 

Pavia. But its central course is the blue lake itself,* 
which is to the Ticino what the Lake of Geneva is to the 
Rhone. 

We are wandering away from the peaceful scene 
before us, in our desire to follow the course of these still 
waters from the ice of the St. Gothard, eight thousand 
feet above the sea, down to the Po and thence to the 
Adriatic. But to follow the water-courses in mind is a 
taste which every traveler in a mountain region finds 
himself forced to acquire. 

Of the higher mountains we have one long irregular 
line of many peaks, here and there wreathed in light 
clouds. In its general direction our view is towards the 
Simplon Pass, but no snow mountains reveal themselves 
in that gap above Baveno. Monte Rosa itself lies too 
far to the left, behind the granite of this nearest height. 

With Switzerland so near, it is difficult to turn away 
from mountains that seem almost within reach. And 
yet we have not forsaken Italy, in approaching so near 
to its iron-bound northern frontier. Certainly there is 
no suggestion in the foreground that this is not still 
Italy. The boats belong unmistakably to the Italian 
lakes. Their canopy-awnings upon light hoops are a 
sufficient reminder of the heat of the southern sun on the 
fisherman’s head. And the inexperienced tourist, who 
ventures to cross the lake in a boat without such a top, 
will surely think himself in the tropics. The little yacht 
at anchor a short distance from the shore is neither 
Italian nor Swiss, but belongs to the cosmopolitan world 
of fashion, which is much the same everywhere, and 
knows how to make itself at home on every coast where 
there are good hotels and luxurious villas. For some- 


* The greatest depth of the lake is 2,800 feet, or more than 2,000 feet below 
the sea-level. 

322 



1 


GENOA 


thing genuinely Italian we must come back to our boat¬ 
man, standing at his oars, or to the sunburned mother 
with her child and basket. 

From Lago Maggiore we return to Milan, and then 
travel across the plains of the Ticino and the Po to 
Alessandria. Again we climb the Apennines, and de¬ 
scend abruptly to the sea. 


GENOA 

In history Genoa exercises a less potent charm over 
the imagination than Venice or Florence, in spite of its 
proud position in the later middle ages. Older than 
Venice by something like seven centuries, Genoa was a 
city of the old Ligurians, and figures in Roman history 
as far back as the time of the Second Punic War, when 
it was destroyed in 205 B. C. by Mago, the brother of 
Hannibal. As a seaport it was destined to maintain 
its importance, although it seldom finds a place in the 
political annals of Rome, either under the Republic or 
the Empire. With the middle ages the story of the city 
takes on a new interest, as we find Genoa in the lead in 
defending this coast against the Saracens, and in the 
eleventh century venturing upon the conquest of Corsica. 
The supremacy of Pisa in these waters was valiantly 
disputed for generations, until a great naval victory in 
1284 gave a still higher position to Genoa, now that the 
ruin of Pisa had begun. Already the Genoese merchants 
had established themselves everywhere in the Levant, 
and the trade of the East was now divided between 
Venice and Genoa. At Constantinople the latter long 
maintained the upper hand, the Genoese having received 
323 


No. 97 


ITALY 


Map 


an entire quarter (Pera) of that city. By the walls they 
erected there, and by their fleets, they contrived to 
overawe the feeble eastern emperors. With Venice 
there were incessant wars, and it was not until near the 
end of the mediaeval period that Venice at length out¬ 
stripped Genoa in the race. And even in the age of 
discovery which followed, the maritime glory of the 
Genoese had not yet departed. 

At home the government was torn between rival 
families, whose strife led constantly to foreign interven¬ 
tion by the dukes of Milan, or the kings of France or 
Naples, and to subjection for a time to other powers. 
From these, and from its rivals in Italy, as from the 
Turks in the East, Genoa suffered one blow after another, 
until its history becomes a painful tale of woe. 

At last, after the Napoleonic storms, Genoa found 
her permanent anchorage in the kingdom of Sardinia, 
and increasing prosperity has come with the growth and 
progress of the kingdom of Italy. 

For a view of the city and a glimpse of the Mediterra¬ 
nean, we climb to the upper quarters, along the line of the 
old walls, now destroyed to make public gardens and 
promenades. 

97. Genoa from an Old Palace Garden. 

From a terrace we have the city spread out before 
us. Away to the right is the towering lighthouse, 011 
its rocky promontory. Above a picturesque mass of 
fortifications of various ages, and out of the natural 
rock, rises a slender square tower in two stories. There 
are few more imposing beacons in the world to guide 
the shipmaster into port. For the light is three 

324 


12 


GENOA 


No. 97 


hundred and eighty feet above the harbor. It is a 
sufficient reminder that Genoa keeps her eye upon the 
sea. 

Below the lighthouse we may easily make out the 
basin of the inner harbor, with steamers lying by the 
quays. It is there that the great liners land their pas¬ 
sengers, and their freight from Constantinople, or New 
York, or the Argentina, or the Far East. 

In the distance we have a long stretch of Mediterra¬ 
nean horizon, vague and intangible, as it often is. Against 
the blue waters are projected the masts of countless 
ships. Further to the left a straight dark line marks 
the outermost limits of the latest addition to the port 
of Genoa. It is the Molo of the Duke of Galliera, who 
contributed large sums for the improvement of the 
harbor. 

Returning to what lies nearer in the foreground of 
our prospect, we have a charming bit of an Italian gar¬ 
den, composing itself as skilfully as any piece of stage 
scenery,—the spreading palm on the left, the wonderful 
tapestry pattern in a mosaic of black and white stones, 
the parapet itself with its century-plants in vases, and 
then the mass of greenness on the right, sending up one 
tall cedar, while in front a pine rises above the parapet. 
Framed in between these two trees is the most imposing 
of the palaces below. It is almost startling to find how 
different is the palace of Genoa from those of Florence 
and Venice, or of Rome. In the first place, the roof is 
here given due recognition, as something to be frankly 
confessed, and not to be concealed from view by balus¬ 
trades, or lost to sight merely by the lowness of its pitch. 
We seem to have wandered back to the North again, 
as we look out over such roofs. And yet the classical 
forms are not banished because a high-pitched roof was 

325 


No. 97 


ITALY 


Map 


allowed to retain the flavor of the middle ages. The 
front of this particular palace shows Corinthian pilasters 
and ornate window-pediments, alternately round and 
triangular. The frieze is exaggerated in height to ad¬ 
mit of attic windows, punctuated by the brackets which 
support the cornice. Near the edge of the roof is 
placed a low parapet, hardly amounting to an archi¬ 
tectural feature. The chimneys have this interesting 
Genoese custom of boldly climbing the slope of the roof 
to an angle, and there ending tamely in a chimney-pot. 
Picturesque in itself, it has also the unfortunate sug¬ 
gestion that when these sumptuous palaces were built 
warmth and comfort were much less thought of than 
splendor. 

This is an entire street of palaces, running off to our 
left, and nearly all of them belong to the same type. 
It is known now as the Via Garibaldi, and speaking 
palatially, it is the Grand Canal of Genoa. Many of 
them have famous courts, with a great display of col¬ 
umns and staircases and balustrades. They are in 
fact one of the chief sights of the city, and tell their plain 
tale of wealth and prosperity in the sixteenth and seven¬ 
teenth centuries. Less romantic and less varied than 
the palaces of Venice, less expressive than those of 
Florence, these palatial homes of Genoa still have their 
interest, and are carefully studied by architects and 
students. 

Over the nearer roofs a few church towers and unim¬ 
portant domes appear above the general plane of house¬ 
tops. It is not unlike the history of Genoa, a level above 
which few great things rise into prominence,—no great 
work in art or letters or education, none of the inspira¬ 
tion of Florence, or of the charm of Venice; but a far- 


326 


12 


GENOA 


No. 98 


reaching commerce, bold adventure, and the unending 
fascination of the sea, above all the Mediterra¬ 
nean. 

Proceeding from our palace garden to the Piazza 
Manin, on very high ground at the eastern limits of the 
city, we descend into the stony valley of the Bisagno, a 
mountain-torrent, and following the stream for nearly 
a mile, we reach the suburb of Staglieno and the cele¬ 
brated Campo Santo. 

With interminable corridors, grouped about a cen¬ 
tral rotunda and its Doric portico, the Campo Santo is 
a very extensive cemetery of quite recent date. Large 
courts are enclosed within its cloistered walks, and 
isolated tombs climb up the steep hill behind. 

g 8 . The Campo Santo, a Corridor. 

The long corridor is vaulted and divided by broad 
ribs, producing this vista of unnumbered arches. No 
monuments are permitted to obstruct the floor, which 
remains unbroken from end to end. Each “bay,” or 
section of the corridor, contains one large tomb, with 
sculptures. Smaller memorials find their places against 
the piers. In general the architectural element in these 
monuments is thrust into the background, and sculp¬ 
ture reigns with an undisputed sway. This is in many 
respects unfortunate, especially if one recalls the su¬ 
preme qualities of Michael Angelo’s tombs, where sculp¬ 
tured figures and architectural framework are so ob¬ 
viously the fruit of a single genius.* Here the archi¬ 
tect does little more than supply a pedestal, in a few 
massive blocks. 


* See Nos. 42 and 75. 


327 



No. 98 


ITALY 


Map 


Again, if we had hoped to find in the Campo Santo of 
Genoa some memorials of its best age, or some historic 
works of art, we are doomed to disappointment, so 
completely modern is the whole cemetery. It is a 
gallery of Italian sculpture of the last generation, and 
can claim no higher place. And yet the traveler in a 
country so full of artistic memorials of the past, al¬ 
though he must concentrate his attention more or 
less completely upon the old masters, cannot but wish 
to know how far the art of the present moment in that 
country is still following the path of old tradition, and 
how far it has found new ways to achieve a develop¬ 
ment of its own. A stranger cannot hesitate between 
the Uffizi Gallery, and an exhibition of the paintings 
of the year, although, if less pressed for time, he might 
find many things to interest and instruct him in the 
latter. 

So the Campi Santi of Florence and Milan and Rome 
bring before us an exhibit of what the new Italy is 
doing in sculpture. And here at Genoa, too, we must 
not look for evidences of a loving study either of the 
antique, or of the ablest works of the Renaissance. 
The revived classicism of Canova, which dominated 
Italian sculptors in so large a part of the nineteenth 
century, had passed away before this gallery of dead 
men and lively statues had been opened. 

But every variety of taste is represented. This figure 
of Hope on our right, with outstretched arms and flying 
draperies, might faintly suggest the Samothracian 
Victory of the Louvre in her triumphant pose. Yet 
the superb vigor and intensity of that pagan goddess is 
hardly to be recognized in this earthly conception of the 
Christian virtue. Present-day tastes in Italian sculp¬ 
ture, however, are not conspicuous in this first monu- 
328 


12 


GENOA 


No. 98 


ment, and scarcely reveal themselves except in the 
marble flowers at her feetK 

The next tomb is surmounted by a bark with the 
familiar lateen sail of the Mediterranean. A youthful 
angel, with powerful wings, is furling the sail as the 
port of life is reached. 

Busts and statues follow in endless succession, 
usually aiming to represent the departed with all possible 
realism. Great skill has been shown in details, but a 
broader sense of art, as something greater and 
more enduring than the whims of the fashion-plate, is 
often conspicuously absent. The lamented wife may 
be represented in an elaborate Parisian gown, which 
must grieve her soul, now that it is twenty or thirty 
years out of fashion. This is essentially a sculpture of 
clothes, in which ingenuity and skill have run riot in 
the effort to depict trimmings and laces and other van¬ 
ities, empty enough in the presence of death. 

But, whatever be the cause, it seems to be a universal 
observation that every people in the world, except the 
Greek, has shown its feebler side, and its most imper¬ 
fect taste, whenever it came to perpetuate sorrow in 
marble, or even to give it a passing expression. Witness 
this long array of wreaths worked in glass beads, purple 
and white and black,—the invariable symptom of cor¬ 
rect grief in the Latin countries. These do not quite 
exclude other wreaths, to be sure, but they hold the 
field. Here and there a photograph is displayed, as 
here on our right, below. And then there are the rib¬ 
bons inscribed in letters of gold, and the many lamps 
to be lighted on All Souls (2d November),—the latter, 
at least, a venerable custom, to relieve the obtrusive 
modernness of all the rest. 


329 


No. 99 


ITALY 


Map 


On our return to the city, we follow the street of the 
palaces, the Via Garibaldi,* and on through several 
piazzas and a curving street into the Via Balbi, an¬ 
other of the principal thoroughfares, leading past the 
Royal Palace and the University, in the direction of 
the Columbus monument and the Railway Station. 

99 . The Public Washing—A Street Scene. 

From the busy Via Balbi we look down into this cross¬ 
street, which descends rapidly to the arsenal and the 
inner harbor. It is only one of many such streets in 
the closest proximity to the chief arteries of the city, 
and the palaces of nobility, or even royalty. But this 
we have found to be a common feature of most Italian 
cities. The great and fashionable world is reminded 
daily in its life at home of the fact that the poorest are 
always at their elbows, just as in the churches the cost¬ 
liest garments are jostled by beggars. Very likely this 
familiar contact with rags has made the well-to-do 
Italian rather more indifferent to the poor, except as he 
tosses them an occasional soldo. 

The street before us, however, does not represent 
the slums of Genoa. In fact the general impression is 
of a cleanliness at least comparative. Certainly water 
is near at hand, and supplied in abundance at the pub¬ 
lic washing-place under the iron shelter, down there 
on the lower level, in the shadow of the tall houses. 
And the industry of the women who have been working 
there is now proclaiming itself to the public in the light 
of the sun. Sheets picturesquely patched, hang like 
banners over the street, and garments of every sort 
are carried on ropes across from house to house. As 
it happens, the street is uncommonly wide, or there 


* See No. 97. 


330 



12 


GENOA 


No. 99 


would be less sunshine to hasten the removal of these 
familiar decorations. 

Many things serve to remind us of Naples,* but the 
differences also are striking. First of all, these houses 
have no balconies. Flowers at the windows are few 
and far between, and one misses that varied assortment 
of all possible articles hanging against the wall. In 
general life seems less entertaining here, certainly far 
less vociferous. Children are not lacking, surely, but 
it would not be Italy at all, if they were few in number , 
and sedate in behavior. We may well imagine these 
Genoese children to have a less intimate acquaintance 
with hunger and privation than the Neapolitan beg¬ 
gars. They are better dressed and more tidy in ap¬ 
pearance. But they could scarcely claim to be so 
happy, or at least their .happiness is not after the over¬ 
flowing kind which fills the dingiest streets of Naples 
with human sunshine. The whole street seems well 
kept, and proud of its honest and law-abiding citizens. 
One may perhaps assume that the garments floating 
on the wind above do not quite represent the entire 
wardrobe of the inhabitants. 

It is a bit of old Genoa, which could be matched by a 
hundred other streets, all more or less alike, none with¬ 
out some interest to the stranger, who treasures just 
such prosaic pictures in his mind, and finds them a use¬ 
ful corrective to an excess of sight-seeing, when he is 
tired of the great and striking things, and wishes to 
forsake palaces with their tawdry contents, and crowded 
galleries and churches, to make an excursion into real 
life, as it is to be found in just such a street as this. 
From such homes went forth the sailors who carried the 
Genoese flag all over the Mediterranean. And if we 


* See Nos. 2, 3, and 5. 


331 



No. 100 


ITALY 


Map 


wish to form some idea of the Genoa which Christopher 
Columbus knew, we must forget all the palaces of a later 
age, restore those of an earlier date, and multiply such 
simple streets indefinitely. Add a few churches, and 
the busy harbor, and we have a picture—very imper- 
feet, to be sure—of Genoa in the time of the great navi¬ 
gator. It was not in the city, apparently, that he was 
born, although his birthplace is somewhat obscure. 
Usually it has been supposed that the discoverer of 
► the new world first saw the light at a village called 
Cogoleto, some fifteen miles west of Genoa. As a 
Genoese, however, he is claimed as the chief glory of the 
city of the sea, and in boyhood he must have known 
her streets intimately, with all their sights, from the 
unloading of the rich wares of the East, to the drying 
linen stretched from wall to wall. 

The Via Balbi soon enters the Piazza Acquaverde, 
where the Columbus monument among its palm trees 
is the centre of attraction. Passing the Railway 
Station and the Doria Palace, we climb a hill above the 
railway to the Palazzo Scoglietto (Rosazza) and its 
gardens. 

100. Genoa from the Rosazza Gardens. 

We are facing the southeast, and looking directly 
over the inner harbor to the older quarter of the city. 

It is not the picturesque view which we enjoyed from 
the dreamy palace garden on the height* This is the 
busy seaport, displaying to us its quays and crowded 
harbor, its spreading warehouses, and in the foreground 
the railway, with tracks enough to suggest the volume 


* See No. 97. 


332 



12 


GENOA 


No. 100 


of the traffic,—and to spoil any landscape. Even the 
picturesque roofs and rococo tower of this church below 
us fail to redeem the scene. Following the railway the 
triangular building in the distance on the left is the 
custom-house. Those directly beyond belong to the 
arsenal. To the right of the custom-house a long quay, 
covered with warehouses, projects into the harbor. 
There the largest steamers lie, while discharging their 
passengers. From that quay we shall soon take our 
departure from Genoa and Italy, by a steamer which has 
not yet arrived. 

All this nearer portion of the harbor Seems quite 
covered with shipping,—white steamships and black, 
large and small, liners and “tramps.” Over these 
vessels long rows of houses curving to the right mark 
the line of the principal water-front, the Via Carlo Alberto, 
and its continuation under other names. It is the 
busiest part of Genoa, alive with sailors of every na¬ 
tionality, as it has been from time immemorial. A 
relic of former commercial greatness still exists in the 
building of the old Bank of St. George, which was for 
generations the one stable institution in Genoa, with 
a position which one can only compare with that of the 
East India Company. Its palace now serves other 
ends, but still witnesses to the importance of what was 
once among the foremost banks in the world. It lies 
directly opposite us on the water-front, next to the long 
row of white bonded warehouses. 

On the right the mass of indistinguishable roofs 
rises to one conspicuous dome and two towers,—the 
church of S. Maria in Carignano, on a height one hun¬ 
dred and seventy-five feet above the sea. It is an 
obvious imitation of the older plan of St. Peter's at 
Rome. 


333 


No. 100 


ITALY 


Map 


The tower of the cathedral is more difficult to find, 
among the roofs above the bonded warehouses, to the 
right of the Banca di S. Giorgio , beneath that mountain 
headland which juts out into the sea, far away in the 
distance,—the limit of our vision along the Eastern 
Riviera. 

On the left a nearer mountain of almost exactly sim¬ 
ilar outline forms a background for the higher quarters 
of the city, where tall modern houses endeavor to con¬ 
ceal the gardens of that favored region. The older 
palaces with their characteristic roofs lie at a lower 
level, and are lost in this distant view. 

Such is Genoa from the harbor side,—a city which 
contributed by its extensive commerce to the knowl¬ 
edge of the East and the refinement of the West; and 
won a great place in history as the rival, first of Pisa, 
and then of Venice; although the latter had all the 
advantages of situation, while Genoa was exposed to 
every attack, and more certain to be entangled in 
foreign affairs. If Venice boasts of her Dandolo and 
Marco Polo, Genoa may match the former with the great 
Andrea Doria, and eclipse the latter’s travels in Cathay 
with the discoveries of her Christopher Columbus. 

Our old-world journey has thus brought us face to 
face with the new. Both in history and in present- 
day realities no Mediterranean port has closer ties 
with the two Americas than has Genoa. And surely in all 
our wanderings through famous scenes, nothing 
has impressed us so much as the continuity of all 
things historic,—that there is no great gulf fixed be¬ 
tween our modern civilization and that which flourished 
in the old Greek cities—such as Paestum—or at Pom¬ 
peii, or Rome itself, and even on this mountainous coast 
334 


12 


GENOA 


of Liguria; that the middle ages, as we recalled them at 
Florence and Venice, are after all not far behind us; 
that the very closest and most intimate bonds unite 
us with the Italy of the Renaissance and the age of 
discovery. Never again can we think that a few cen¬ 
turies of time constitute a real barrier between the men 
of other days, or their works, and ourselves. As the 
Mediterranean or the Atlantic, they may be able to 
separate by what seems to be a vast distance, but in 
the truer view of things, the centuries themselves are 
the waters of a navigable sea, daily traversed in safety 
and with untold profit, by the craft of every cultivated 
nation. 

THE END 


335 






























* 





















































































INDEX 


Note.—The heavy face figures refer to stereograph numbers, and are in 
sorted only in case the object can be seen in the photograph. 


A 


Actium.144, 166-167 

Adige.305 

Adriatic_. . .214, 272-273, 299-300 

^Emilius Paulus.27 

.Eneas.28 

Africa.28, 85, 128, 153 

Agrippa.166-167, 182, 184, 216 

Agrippina.59 

Alaric.153, 200, 209, 211 

Alba Longa.28 

Alba, Mt.212, 217 

Alban Mts.37, 137, 61, 215-217 

Albano.213, 217 

Alessandria.323 

Alexander Mosaic.63 

Alexandria.284-285 

Alexandrian Age.50, 116, 192, 248 

Alps.308, 95, 320, 96, 322 

Maritime.84 

Amalfi.77-80, 19,80-85 


Cappuccini of. . .18, 77-80, 82-83 


Convent near.20, 83-85 

Disaster at.79 

Luna, Convent of.19, 81 

Marina of. 19, 80 

St. Angelo, Monte.77, 84 

Anio. 216 

Anjou.36 

Antonines.25 

Antoninus Pius.26 

Antonius, L.225 


Antony.152, 166,225 

Apennines. .214, 64, 226, 271, 308,323 

Appian Way.62, 66 

(See Rome, Roads.) 

Appius Claudius.28, 208-209, 214, 216 

Aquileia.272 

Aquinas, St. Thomas.85 

Aquino.85 


Arezzo.228 

Arles.88, 305 

Arno. (See Florence.) 

Arnolfo.199, 227-228, 232-233, 

236, 238, 258 

Arpinum. 85 

Assisi. 224 

Attalus.191 

Attila.201,272 

Augustus. . .26, 36, 49, 64, 87-89, 95, 
136, 144, 149, 151-152, 166-167, 

188, 195, 216, 225 

Age of.153, 210 

Aurelian.209-210 


(See Rome, Walls.) 

Aurelius, Marcus.26, 86, 130 

Austria, Austrians. . 21, 36, 231, 274, 

308,314 

Avignon.93, 159, 173 


B 

Baise.36 

Barberini.161, 218 

Baveno.321-322 

Belisarius.25,173 

Benedictines.85, 203 

Bernini.91,98, 103, 158, 172, 175 

Bologna.266, 271 

Borghese.218 

Borgognone.315, 317 

Borromean Islands. 95, 318-320 

Borromeo, S. Carlo.319 

Bourbons.21, 32, 36 

Bramante.92,98, 111,314 

Brenner.305 

Browning.293 

Brundisium (Brindisi).213-214 

Brunelleschi.. 230, 233, 254, 262-263, 

269 

Byron. < • • • • 191 


337 

































































INDEX 


C 

Caesar, Julius. 26-27, 87-89, 118, 150, 

152, 188, 19i; 197, 307 
(See Rome, Basilica, Temple.) 


Caetani.212 

Caligula.95, 105, 215-216 

Camillus.28 

Campania..35, 71, 139 

Canova.105, 328 

Capri.36, 37, 39 

Capua.62, 85, 214 

Caracalla.121—122, 208 

(See Rome, Baths.) 

Carthage.27-28, 196 

Cassino.85 

Castellammare.85 

Catiline.27, 122 

Cato, the Elder.27 

the Younger....27 

Cat ulus. ..132 

Catullus..'.306-308 

Cellini, Benvenuto.240 

Cenci.197 

Charlemagne.... .25, 95 

Charles Y.84, 173, 200, 231, 259 

Charles VIII (France).231 

Chioggia.300 


Christians.96, 105, 138, 141-142, 

305 

Cicero . . 27, 65, 85, 87, 110, 122, 145, 

152, 196 

Claudius.182, 215-216 

Cogoleto.332 

Colonna.184-187 

Columbus.332, 334 

Constantine . . 95, 104, 146-148, 159, 

199,213, 233, 271, 287, 314 

(See Rome, Arch, Basilica.) 
Constantinople. 24, 25, 36, 40, 82, 88, 
118, 128, 152, 160, 166, 270, 
272-274, 278, 284-288, 297, 


323-324 

Corniche.84 

Corsica.271, 323 

Corsini. 183 

Cortona. 228 

Cosmati..204, 289 

Crassus.212 

Cum*.18,28,29,35,75 

Curius.28 


D 

Dacia.189 

Dacians.148, 183 

Dante . . 229-230, 232-233, 257-258, 

263,266, 307 

Darius.. .63 

Dandolo.273, 334 

Diocletian ... 87, 131, 146, 233, 271, 

305, 314 

(See Rome, Baths.) 

Dominicans.238 

Domitian.26, 129, 215 

Doria.217, 220 

Andrea.334 

Drusus.149 

E 

..95-96, 126 

. 57 

.55, 57 

. 28, 32, 225, 228-229 

.154 

F 

Fabius Maximus. 28 

Fabricius. 28 

Farnese.49, 218 

Bull.7, 49-51, 116, 208 

Hercules.6, 48-49, 155, 208 

Ferrara. . . 271 

Fiesole (Faesulse).229, 263 

Florence_37, 82, 227-231, 66-76, 

231-265, 271, 323, 325-326, 

328, 335 

History of.21-24, 229-231 

Academy.237 

Arno 228-229, 72, 248-251, 76, 

264-265, 271 
Bargello. 237, 74, 255-258, 76, 262 

Bridges.72, 249-251 

Ponte Alle Grazie.76, 264 

Ponte Vecchio.72, 249-251, 296 
Campanile. (See Giotto’s Tower.) 

Cascine.72, 250 

Churches and Convents: 

Cathedral. . 199, 227, 66, 231- 
235, 238, 76, 262, 269, 280 

Badia. 76, 262 

Baptistery. 76, 263 

S. Croce.76, 263 

Brancacci Chapel. ... 76, 263 


Egypt. 

Empedocles 
Etna, Mt. . . 
Etruscans... 
Eudoxia . . . 


338 


































































INDEX 


Florence 

Churches and Convents—Continued 

S. Frediano.72, 251 

S. Jacopo.72, 251 

S. Lorenzo.258, 263 

Chapel of the Princes. . 258, 

76, 263 

Library, Laurentian . . 82, 258 
New Sacristy, Tomb of 
Giuliano de’ Medici. . 75, 

258-262, 263 

S. Marco.243 

S. Miniato, View from. . . .76, 

262-265 

Monte Oliveto.72, 251 

S. Niccolo.76, 264 

Giotto’s Tower. 66, 232-234,236, 

76, 262, 268 
Loggia dei Lanzi. .67-68, 237-241 

Marzocco.67, 237 

Oltr’ Arno.76, 263-264 

Piazza della Signoria.. . 231, 67, 
235-238,251 

Palaces.241, 254 

Medici. (See Riccardi.) 

Pitti.249-251 

Riccardi.73, 252-255, 258 

Uffizi.237, 68, 248-251, 258, 328 

Corridor in.69, 241-243 

Tribuna.70-71, 243-248 

Venus de’ Medici . 70, 243- 

246, 260 

Wrestlers.71, 246-248 

View from. . .248, 72, 249-251 
Palazzo Vecchio 226, 67, 235- 
241, 252-253, 255, 76, 262, 

264 

Florentines.176, 226, 238 

Foligno..224 

Forum of Appius.213 

France, the French.24, 36, 40, 324 

Francis, St.163 

Frangipani.128 

Franks.307 

Frederick Barbarossa.314 

Frederick II.36 

G 

Garda.308 

Gauls.28, 32, 153, 191 

Genoa_21, 82, 271, 273-274, 298, 

97-100, 324-335 


History of.323-324 

Bank of St. George. 100 , 333-334 

Bisagno. 327 

Campo Santo. 98 , 327-329 

Cathedral. 334 

Columbus Monument.330 

Harbor. 97, 325,100 

Lighthouse. 97, 324-325 

S. Maria in Carignano_ 100 , 333 

Palaces . 97 , 325-326 

Scoglietto (Rosazza), View 

from. 100 , 332-334 

Palace-Garden, View from. .97, 
324-327 

Staglieno.. 

Streets .99, 330-332 

Via Balbi. 330 , 332 

Via Carlo Alberto. 100 , 333 

Via Garibaldi. 97 , 326, 330 

Germans.25, 27, 36, 40, 49, 153 - 154 , 

210 

Germany. 149 , 151> 153 305 


Geta. 


121-122 


Ghiberti. 263 

Giocondo, Fra. 39 s 

Giotto- ..231-234, 258 

Giovanni da Bologna.240 

Goethe. 115 

St. Gothard.321-322 

Gothic Wars. 173 216 

Goths-25, 36, 104, 153, 200 , 209, 

211,314 

Gracchi . 27 216 

Gravellona. 321 

Greeks, in Southern Italy . 28, 32, 35 , 

74-76, 334 

Guelphs and Ghibellines .229, 256 


Hadrian.. . 26, 89, 118, 142, 167-168, 
170-173, 190 
(See Rome, Pantheon, St. Angelo.) 

Hannibal.28, 228, 323 

Helena. 104 

Herculaneum.38, 51-52, 64, 73 

Hohenstaufen. 39 

Honorius.200-201, 209, 211 

Horace.19, 196, 213 

Humanists.230 

Humbert.22, 167 

Huns.201, 272 

339 


























































INDEX 


Ischia.37 

Isola Bella.95, 318-321 

Madre.95, 319-320 

Italy, History of.19-34 

Kingdom of .. . 20-23, 36, 231, 

274, 314, 324 


Jerusalem, Destruction of.128 

Temple at.103 

Spoils of.128 

Juan, Don.185 

Jugurtha.49, 122 

Justinian.25, 36, 173, 210, 272 

Digest of.82 


Lago Maggiore.200, 315, 95-96, 

318-323 

Laveno.318 

Leopold II (Tuscany).231 

Lepanto.185 

Levant.82, 273, 285, 297-298, 323 

Ligorio.179 

Liguria, Ligurians.323, 335 

Liris.85 

Lombards.25, 36, 272, 307 

Lombardy.21 

(See Milan.) 

Longhena.301-302 

Lorraine, House of.231 

Ludovisi.218 

M 

Magenta.21, 308 

Mago.323 

Marbles.185 

Marcellus.28 

Marconi.181 

Marco Polo.334 

Marius.27, 49, 85 

St. Mark.273 

(See Venice.) 

Martial.223 

Maxentius.124, 127, 146, 148, 166 

Medici.172, 179, 230-231, 245, 

252, 255, 264, 296 

Alessandro.231, 259 

Cosimo.230, 254 


Giovanni.254 

Giuliano.258-261 

Giulio.259, 260 

Lorenzo the Magnificent 

230-231,254 

Lorenzo.259, 261 

Piero.230 

Mediolanium (Milan).314 

Mediterranean. . .35, 37, 18. 81, 97, 

324-327, 329, 331, 335 

Michael Angelo.51,93, 131, 164, 

169, 185, 233, 237, 252, 263, 278, 327 

David.237, 262 

Holy Family.70, 245-246 

Last Judgment , Sistine Chapel 

28, 106-108 

Moses.42, 154-157, 261 

PieU.25, 99-102 

Sistine Chapel, Ceiling.28, 106-107 
Tomb of Giuliano de’ Medici .75, 

258-262 

Michelozzo.254 

Milan. 88 , 307, 92-93, 308-315, 318, 

323-324,328 

History of.21, 25, 314 

Cathedral of. . .97, 92-93, 308-315 

Minicia Marcella.180 

Moors, The.85 

Mummius.196 

N 

Naples.35, 1-7, 37-52, 56-58, 62-63, 

82,84,213-214, 217, 324, 331 

History of.21, 35-37 

Aquarium.37 

Arsenal.39 

Bull, Farnese. . .7, 49-51, 116, 208 

Castel del Carmine.3, 42 

Nuovo.1, 39 

St. Elmo.37 


Harbors. 

.1, 38-39 

Hercules, Farnese 

. . . 6, 48-49, 

155, 208 

Houses in.2-3, 40 

-44, 5, 46-47, 

171,331 

Immacolatella. . . . 

.1, 39, 40 

S. Martino. 

. . .37,39,40,47 

View from. 

.1,37-40 


Museum,National.47, 6-7, 48-52, 

63 

Porta Nolana.44 


340 


































































INDEX 


N aples—Continued 
Streets: 

Marinella. 3 , 42-44 

Roma.(1, 39) 

Strada Nuova.2, 40 

Toledo. (See Roma.) 

Villa Nazionale.42 

del Popolo.1, 39, 42 

Napoleon I, 21, 32-33, 203, 274, 285, 287 

Napoleon III.21 

Nar.223 

Narni.223 

Narses.25 

Neapolis (Naples).35 

Nero. .... .26, 36, 55, 59, 71, 96, 105, 

136-137, 143 

Nerva.188 

Nice.21 

Nicomedia.88 

Nimes.305 

Nola.62 

Normans.36, 40 

Nuceria. r .71 

O 

Octavian. (See Augustus.) 


(See Rome, Column.) 

Piedmont... 21 

Pinturicchio.227 

Pisa. ..82, 227, 229, 77-78, 265-271, 

323, 334 

Baptistery.266, 78, 268-271 

Campo Santo.78, 268, 271 

Cathedral.266, 78, 268-271 

Leaning Tower . . .77-78, 265-271 

Porta Nuova.268 

Pistoja.271 

Placidia. 201 

Pliny, the Elder.114 

the Younger.73, 181 

Po. 21 , 200, 271, 308, 314, 321-323 

Pola.305 

Poliziano.234 

Pompeii . 38, 39, 49, 52, 57-58,11-16, 

58-74, 83, 87, 160, 219,317,334 
Amphitheatre. 15, 69-72,139, 305 

Casts of Victims.16, 72-74 

Eumachia, Building of '.60 

Forum. 11 , 58-61, 87 

Gates, Herculaneum.64 

Nola.61 

Porta Marina.58, 72 


Ostia.198 

Ostrogoths.25, 272, 305, 307 

Otto II.172 


P 


Padua.272, 307 

Psestum. 17, 74-76, 82, 334 

Palestrina. 86 

Palladio.302 

Pallanza.95, 318-320 

Pamphili.217-219 

St. Paul.213 


(See Rome, Churches.) 


Paul Veronese.308 

Pavia.315, 321-322 

Certosaof.94, 315-318 

Pergamon.191-193 

Perusia (Perugia).225 

Perugia.24, 223, 64-65, 224-228 

Palazzo Municipio. . . .65, 226-228 

Perugino.227-228 

St, Peter.122 


(See Rome, Churches.) 


Pharsalus.27 

Phocas..152 


Houses, Casa Nuova. 

(See Vettii.) 

Faun. 

.12, 63 

Pansa. 

.64 

Sallust. 


Tragic Poet. 


Vettii. 

14, 67-69, 72 

Museum. 

... 16,72-74 

Streets, Abbondanza. 

.72 

Fortune. 

.12,61-64 

Mercury. 


Nola. 

... 12,61-64 

Tombs. 

... 13,64-66 

Temples, Fortune. . . 

.12, 64 

Jupiter. 

.11,59-61 

Tombs. (See Street: 

s.) 

Villa of Cicero (?). . . , 


Diomedes. 

.65 

Pompey. 

.27, 197 

Pope. 

. .91, 93, 108 

Benedict XIV. 

.183 

Clement VII. 

172,259-260 

Clement XII. 

.183 

Clement XIII. 

.183 

Gregory I. 

.32, 173 

Innocent III. 

.160 


341 


















































































INDEX 


Pope—Continued 

Innocent VIII.112 

Innocent X.218-219 

Julius II.95, 155, 157, 245 

Leo 1.201 

Leo IV.-. .;.178 

Leo XII.134 

Leo XIII.20,22,97,159,180,200,228 
Apartments of. . .22,91-92, 169 

Martin V.187 

Nicholas IV.160 

Nicholas V.95 

Pius IV.179 

Pius V.185 

Pius VI.105 

Pius VII.134,203 

Pius IX.21-22, 173, 200, 214 

Sixtus IV.106 

Sixtus V.189 

Urban VIII.103, 161, 180 

Porta, della. 93 

Portici. . . ..38, 51 

Poseidonia. (See Paestum.) 

Praeneste (Palestrina).86 

Prajano.82-83 

Punic Wars..27, 28, 216, 323 

Pyrrhus.28 


R 

Raphael.167, 227, 242 

Julius II.70,245 

Ravenna.25, 88 , 233, 263, 272, 305 

Regulus.28 

Renaissance. 23-24, 31,33,95,98,102- 
103,106,108,154,185-186, 200, 
230,232-233,238,240,242-243, 
251,253,258,263, 271, 275-276 
280-281, 294,298,302,307,311, 

314-318, 328, 335 

Reni, Guido.161 

Resina.38, 51 

Rhodes.49, 114 

Riccardi.252-255 

Riviera.84, 334 

Rome. . .85, 21-63, 86-223, 225, 227, 
230,238-239,259, 
287,317,325,328,334 

History of.20-28 

Kings of.28 

St. Angelo, Bridge of. (See 
Bridges.) 


Castle of . . . 22, 26, 90, 46-48, 

168-177,211 

Aqueducts.215-217 

Aqua Claudia. 61, 215-216 

Virgo.182, 216 

Arch of Constantine. .32, 119, 

40, 146-149, 183 
Drusus.210 


Septimius Severus . .32, 117- 
118, 33, 121-123, 35, 127, 

129, 36, 132, 146, 41, 150-151 
Titus. 21, 89, 32, 119, 124, 35, 

126-129, 39, 142, 144, 147 

Trajan.147 

Archaeological Institute. . . 63, 221 
Atrium Vestae. ..21, 89, 32, 119, 

123, 36, 132 

Baptistery, Lateran.158 

Basilica, ^Emilia.32, 117 

of Constantine. 99, 32, 118, 
34, 124-126,35,127,129,36, 

130, 164, 208, 63, 222-223,239 
Julia. 21, 88-89, 32, 117, 121, 


124, 36, 132, 41, 150-151, 188 
of Maxentius (See Constantine.) 
of Trajan. . 124, 52, 187-189, 202 
Basilicas, Christian. 25, 99, 199, 

202 , 270 

(See St. Paul’s, St. Peter’s.) 

Baths of Agrippa.167,182 

Caracalla . . 49-50, 124, 58, 

205-208,210,213 

Diocletian. 86 , 165, 206 

Titus. 113 

Trajan.242 

“Black Stone”.122 

Borgo. 48, 174, 180 

(See Streets.) 

Bridges, HSmilian.196 

St. Angelo.90, 46-48, 168-173, 

176, 210 

Cestian.55, 197-198 

Fabrician.55,196-197 

Milvian.146, 148 

Ponte Rotto.55, 196-198 


Ponte Umberto. . . .167, 48, 177 


Campagna . . 86 , 32, 119, 163, 
173, 48, 178, 60-61. 211-217 
Campidoglio. (See Hills, Capitol.) 
Campus Martius.71, 136, 164, 

167,197 


342 






















































INDEX 


Rome—Cont inued 

Carinae.. 

Catacombs.25, 163, 211, 214 

Cemetery. (See Churches, Cap- 
puccini.) 

Protestant.198 

Churches. 

S. Adriano.36, 131, 152 

St. Andrew.55, 197 

Aracoeli. .35, 127, 36, 131, 

41, 152, 48, 176 
S. Bartholomew.55, 197, 63, 222 
Cappuccini, Crypt of 44,161-163 

S. Carlo.48, 177 

Another.55, 197 

Sts. Cosmas and Damianus 

36, 130 

S. Crisogono.63, 221-222 

Domine Quo Vadis.211 

Four Martyrs. .32, 119, 37, 137 
S. Francesca Romana.21, 89, 
32,118-119,129,133-134, 

138, 63, 222 

St. John of the Florentines 

48, 176 

St. John Lateran. .32, 119, 

37, 137, 158, 172, 63, 222- 
223, 247 

Cloisters.205 

Interior.43, 158-161 

St. John and St. Paul.32, 119 
St. Joseph (33, 122, 35, 127), 

36, 131, 41, 151 
St. Lawrence (S. Lorenzo in 


Miranda).36, 130 

S. Maria in Cosmedin.193 


S. Maria Maggiore. .48, 177, 63 

222 

S. Maria in Trastevere 63,220- 

222 

S. Martina. .36, 131, 41, 152 


S. Onofrio.. . ..198 

St. Paul’s-outside-the-Walls 

161, 188, 198 

Cloisters.57, 202-205 

Interior.56, 199-202, 227, 321 
St. Peter’s_23,22-27,90- 


106,125-126,136,138,145, 

154,157-161,163-164,46, 

168-170,172,178,202,207, 

218, 309, 333 

343 


Altar, Papal. . . 24, 98, 26, 

103, 27, 104 
Baldachin. . . .24, 98, 26, 103 
Basilica, The Old, 95-96, 
101-105,171,199-200,204 
Chair of St. Peter ... .98, 103 
Colonnades of .22, 90-92, 

48, 175 

Confessio. .24, 98, 26, 103, 

27, 104-105 

Dome of. 22-23, 90-95, 
36, 131, 133, 165, 46, 
168-169,174,55,198,233 
View from, 48-49, 174- 

181, 219 

Facade of..23,94-95, 109, 136 

Interior of.24, 97-99 

Nave of....24, 97-99, 288 
Obelisk of. .22, 91, 23, 95- 

96, 48, 175 

Piazza of.. .22, 90-93, 106, 

109, 169, 48, 174-175 
Pietk of Michael Angelo 

25, 99-102 

Porta Santa.95 

Roofs of.48, 174 

Sacristy of. .23, 94, 96, 109 
Sculpture of. . .91, 94, 99-105 
Statue of the Apostle . . 

24, 99, 26, 101-103 
Tomb of the Apostle. .98, 

27, 104-105 
Tomb of Urban VIII.26, 103 


Tribune. . . . 26, 103 

Quattro Coronati.32, 119, 37, 

137 

S. Pietro in Montorio. ...... 220 

S. Pietro in Vincoli.154, 157 

S. Sebastiano..39, 144 

S. Sebastiano, Basilica of. 209, 

211, 214 

S. Spirito.48, 176 

St. Stephen . .32, 119 

Trinity S.48, 177 

Cloaca Maxima.150,153 

Circus Maximus.145, 150 

of Nero.91, 95-96, 105, 199 


Colosseum.,71, 90, 32, 117-119, 
124-125, 37-38, 133-143, 
40, 148, 154, 157, 166, 175, 
188, 191, 63, 222, 279, 304 






























INDEX 


Rome—Continued 

Column of Phocas. .21, 89, 32, 

118, 35, 127 , 36, 132, 41. 

150 

Trajan_26, 177, 52, 187-190 

Curia....36, 131, 152 

Dying Gaul_190, 53, 191-193 

Fora of the Emperors.96, 188 

Forum.. 19, 23, 61, 21, 86-89, 
32-36, 116-133, 41, 149- 
154, 165-166, 197-198, 222 

Boarium.193-195 

of Trajan..147 (52, 187-190) 

Fountains, Acqua Paola.220 

of Juturna. .(32, 119), 132, 149 

Meta Sudans.40, 148 

Trevi.50, 181-184, 216 

Gardens, Farnese. .39, 144, 149, 

63, 221-222 

Vatican. (See Palaces.) 

Gates, St. John’s.214 

Porta Appia. (See S. Sebas¬ 
tian©.) 

Porta Aurelia. (See S. Pan- 
crazio.) 

Porta Capena.205, 213 

S. Pancrazio.217, 220 

St. Paul’s.198, 210 

S. Sebastiano..205, 68, 208-211 
Golden House, Nero’s. 136, 39, 143 

Golden Milestone.41, 151 

Graecostasis.41, 150 

Hills, Alban . . . 37, 137 , 61, 215 

Aventine. ..198 

Caelian. 32, 119, 37, 137, 63, 222 
Capitol, Capitoline . . 28, 86, 
116-117, 119-121, 35, 127, 
36, 131, 133, 146, 41, 149, 
151-152, 48, 176, 190, 63, 

221-223 

Esquiline. .113, 133, 143, 154, 

48, 177, 63, 222 
Janiculum. 36, 131, 55, 198, 217 
View from. . 63, 220-223, 264 

Monte Mario.49, 180-181 

Palatine.. 23, 28, 21, 89, 32, 

119, 123-124, 132, 39, 142- 
146, 149, 152, 165, 193-194, 

198, 63, 221 

Library.144 

Pincian. .161, 48, 177, 182, 247 


Quirinal.187, 190 

Vatican.199 

Velia.35, 126 

Island.55, 196-198, 222 

Laocoon. (See Palaces, Vatican.) 
Lateran, Basilica. (See Churches.) 
Palace. (See Palaces.) 

Leonine City.178 

Mamertine Prison.122, 127, 131, 

151, 190 

“Marble Faun”.190 

Mausoleum of Hadrian. (See 
Castle of St. Angelo.) 

Moses of Michael Angelo. ..42, 

154-157, 261 

Museum, Capitoline. . .113, 36, 
131, 186, 190, 63, 221 
Conservatori. .130, 41, 152, 190 
Vatican. (See Palaces.) 
Obelisks, Lateran. . . .37, 137, 158 
St. Peter’s. .22, 91, 23, 95-96, 

48, 175 

Palace of Augustus.145 

Barberini.. . 161 

of the Caesars. 39, 145, 63, 

221-222 

Caffarelli.36, 131, 63, 221 

of Caligula. .32, 119, 39, 144- 

145, 149 

Colonna.51, 184-187, 242 

of Domitian. . 39, 145, 63, 221 

of Justice .48, 177 

Lateran.93, 37, 137, 158, 63, 

222 

Quirinal..20, 22-23, 48, 177, 181 
of the Senator.120, 33, 123, 
35, 127, 36, 131, 41, 152, 

63, 221 

of Tiberius.145, 221 

Valentini.52, 187, 190 

Vatican..20, 22-23, 22, 90- 
93, 145, 46, 168-169, 171, 
174, 48, 175-176, 260, 241- 

242, 284 

Apartments of the Pope 

22, 91-92, 169 


Belvedere.112 

Borgia Apartments. . . .92-93 
Braccio Nuovo.Ill 


Bronze Doors..92, 106, 108- 

109 


344 
































INDEX 


Rome 

Palaces—Vatican, Continued 
Court of St. Damasus 

22, 92, 46, 169 
Gallery of Statues..30, 111 - 

113 

Gardens. ... 40, 178-180, 219 
Laocoon..49, 51, 31, 113- 

116,120 

Library. . .93-94, 29, 109- 

111 , 180 

Loggias. 22 , 92, 242 

Picture Gallery.92 

Royal Stairs.106 

Sala Rotonda.49, 180 

Sculpture Gallery.. .93-94, 

109, 30-31, 111-116, 120 

180, 186, 244 

Sistine Chapel..93, 28, 106- 

109,185 

Roof of. . 22 , 92, 28, 94, 221 

Stanze.92 

Swiss Guards ........ 106, 108 

Pantheon.. .26, 99, 45, 164-167, 

169, 48, 176-177, 182, 207- 
208,270 

Piazzas, Lateran.158 

del Popolo.177 

Rusticucci.48, 176 

di Spagna.177, 182 

PietA. (See Churches, St. Peter’s.) 
Pope’s Gardens. (See Palaces, 
Vatican.) 

Portico of Pompey.197 

of the Twelve Gods... 36, 132, 

41, 151 

Prati del Castello.48, 177 

Pyramid of Cestius.198 

Regia.32, 118, 36, 133 

Roads, Appian Way.205, 

59-60, 208-214, 216 

Appia Nuova.214, 61 

Cornelian Way.96, 105 

Flaminian Way.146, 223 

Latin Way. 205 

Ostian Way.198-199 

Triumphal Way.180 

Rostra_27, (61), 41, 150, 152 

Balustrades of the.32, 

117-118,33, 120-123, 36, 

132 

345 


Sacred Way. (See Streets, 
Sacra Via.) 

Scalse Gemoniae .... 123, 131, 151 
Senate-house. (See Curia.) 

S. Spirito, Hospital of ...46, 169, 

48, 176 

Stairs, Spanish.177-178 

Streets, Borgo Nuovo. . . .46, 

169, 48, 176 
Vecchio. .90, 46, 169, 48, 175 
Corso . . .86, 152, 177, 181- 
182,190 

Nova Via.(34,126) 

Sacra Via.. . 21, 88-89, 32, 
117-119, 123-124, 126, 
36, 130,132, 39, 142-143, 
146, 41, 150 

Tor di Nona.'.170 

Via Nazionale.187 

Vicus Iugarius.41, 150 

Tuscus_32, 117, 41, 150 

Tabularium . . 33, 123, 35—36, 

131, 135, 41, 152 

Tarpeian Rock.221 

Temple of JEsculapius.198 

Antoninus and Faustina. . 

21, 89, 32, 117, 123 (35, 

127), 36, 130 

Apollo.144 

Castor and Pollux .... 21, 89, 
32,117,119,123, 36, 132, 

41, 149-150 

Concord_33, 123, 36, 132, 

41, 151-152 

Hercules.194-195 

Julius Caesar . . . .21, 89, 32, 

117-118, 36, 133 

Mars.210 

Mater Matuta. ..195 

Peaoe.. 128 

Portunus.195 

Romulus (son of Maxentius) 

32, 118, 124, 36, 130, 166 
Sacred City, the..32, 118, 35, 

127-128, 36, 130 
Saturn. . .21, 86-89, 116, 32, 
117, 121, 35, 127, 36, 

132, 41, 151 

Trajan.190 

Venus and Rome. .21, 89, 32, 

118-119,37, 137 





































INDEX 


Rome—Continued 


Scipio Africanus, the Elder.28 

Temple of Vespasian. .121, 35, 

the Younger. 

.27,196 

127, 38, 

132, 41, If 

v'erus, Alexander. 

.136,208 

Vesta. . .21, 89, 32 

, 119, 123, 

Septimius. 

_121-122, 130 


36, K 

(See Rome, Arch.) 

Vesta (so-called). . . 

. 54, 193-11 

forza. . . ... 

.311,314 

Theatre of Balbus . . . 

.1« 

-ibyl. 

.28 

Marcellus. 

.1 

Sibylline Books. 

.144 

Pompey. 

. ..1 

Sicilies, the Two. 

.21,36,85 

Three Columns. (See Temple ot 

Sicily. 

22, 40, 55, 76, 204 

Castor and Pollux.) 

Siena.24, 224, 226-227, 271 

Tiber. 148, 167, 46-48, 168-177, 

Simplon. 

.321-322 

193, 55, 196-198, 

200-201, 

Solferino. 

.21,308 

210,221-225, 249 

Somma, Monte . . . . 1 

., 38, 53-54, 11, 

Tomb of Caecilia Metella. . .. 60, 


58, 15, 70 


211-212 

Sorrento. 

.77-78, 82, 84-85 

of Scipios. 

.208 

Peninsula. 

.76, 18-20,77-85 

Tower of Nero. 

.48, 177 

Spain, Spaniards. . . . 

24,36-37, 40, 314 

Trastevere. .210, 63, 

220-222, 264 

Spoleto. 

.224 

Tullianum. (See 

Mamertine 

Stresa . 

.318 

Prison.) 


Strozzi. .. 

.261 

Umbilicus Roma?. . . . 

.151 

Sulla. 

.27,65 

Vestals, House of 

the. (See 

Syracuse. 

.28 

Atrium Vestae.) 




Villa Barberini. 

.48, 176 

T 


Doria-Pamphili. . . 

.62,217-220 

Tacitus. 

.73 

Medici. 

.48, 177,247 

Tarentum. 

.75 

Mills. 

. 145, 63, 221 

Tarquins. 

.28, 150 

Walls of Aurelian.161, 198, 205, 

Terni. 

.223 


210-211 

Teutons. 

.49 

Leonine. 

.... 178,180 

Theodoric. 

.25, 153, 272, 305 

of Servius. 

205, 210, 213 

Theodosius. 

.200 

Romulus. 

.28 

Three Taverns. 

.213 

Son of Maxentius. 

(See Tern- 

Tiber. (See Rome.) 


pies.) 


Tiberius. 

.36, 95, 149 

Augustulus. 

.36 

Ticino. 

.321-323 

Ruskin. 

.234 

Titus. 

.54, 114 



(See Rome, Arch, Baths.) 

S 


Tivoli (Tibur). 

.19,26,215 

Sabine Mountains.48, 178, 216-217, 

Torcello. 

.275 


63,222-223 

Trajan. 

.26, 120-123,210 

Salerno.58, 74, 77, 80-83 

(See Rome, Arch, Baths, Tern- 

Samnites. 

.28, 35,214 

pie, Column, Forum.) 

Sansovino. 

. .278, 281 

Trasumennus, Lake. 

.228 

Saracens. ..25, 40, 84, 104, 

178,200, 323 

Tre Fontane. 

.199 

Sardinia. 

...21-22, 271 

Trieste. 

.298, 305 

Savonarola. 

237-238, 243 

Turin. 

.21-22 

Savoy . 

.21 

Turks. 

.24, 273,324 

House of. 

.21, 36 

Tumulo, Capo. 

.19, 81 

Saxons. 

.142, 154 

Tuscan Hills. 

.76, 265 

Scaligers. 

.307 

Tuscany. 

.21,231,257 


346 


































































INDEX 


U 

Umbrians.28 

V 

Vandals. . .. 104, 128, 153, 200-201, 210 

Vasari...237, 242 

Venetia.21 


Venice. 82, 271-274, 79-89, 274-303, 

305, 307-308, 323-326, 334-335 

History of.21, 24, 272-274 

Academy.290, 297-298, 301 

Campanile. .236,266, 79-80, 274- 

277 (81, 280), 300 

View from.89, 300-303 

Bridges, Canonica. 82, 284 

Paglia. 81, 282 

Rialto. 86-87, 293-298 

of Sighs- 79, 277, 82, 282-284 

Bucentaur of the Doges.295 

Canals, Grand.272, 85-87, 290- 
298, 89, 300-302, 326 

Rio S. Trovaso.88, 298-300 

Churches, S. Marco. 79-80, 274- 
278,290,301,303 

Fa?ade. 83, 284-287 

Horses of. 83, 286-287 

Interior. 84, 288-290 

Sts. John and Paul.86, 293 

S. Maria della Salute 85, 290- 


Balbi. 


294 

Cornaro. 

. . . (85, 

292) 

Dandolo. 


.293 

Foscari. 

.293 

, 296 

View from. . . . 

.86, 293 

-295 

Franchetti. .85, 

290-292. 

298 

Grimani. 

.86, 

293 

Another. 

.86, 

294 

Patriarch’s . 

. . . . (82, 

283) 

Rezzonico. 


.293 

Royal.79, 

, 276, 89, 

301 

Pali.85 

-86, 292 

-294 


Piazza of S. Marco.83,284-287,301 
Piazzetta 79-81, 276-281,283- 

285, 290, 300, 306 

Prisons. 79, 277, 81, 281 

Procuratie Nuove.89, 301 

Punta della Salute.85, 290-291, 

89, 300-302 

Riva.279, 81, 280 

Rivoalto.296 

Vergil.114 

Verona. 90-91, 303-308 

Amphitheatre. .90, 303-306, 309 

Casa dei Mercanti. 91, 307 

Palazzo Trezza. 91, 306 

Piazza delle Erbe. . 91, 306-308 

Vespasian... 127-130, 136-137, 142- 


292, 299, 89,301-302 

Redentore.89, 302 

S. Trovaso.88, 299 

Columns of St. Mark and St. 
Theodore.79-81, 276-281, 285 

Dogana. 89, 302 

Fondaco dei Tedeschi.87, 297 

Gardens, Public.85, 290 

Royal. 79, 276, 89, 301 

Islands, S. Giorgio.272 

View from. 79, 274-277 

Giudecca.89, 300-302 

Malamocco.300 

Library, Old. 79-81, 276-281 

Lido.300 

Mint. 79-81, 276-281 

Molo. 81, 280-281, 284 

Palaces, Doges' 79-82, 274-286, 

290-291, 301, 303 


143, 188 

(See Rome, Temple.) 

Vesuvius 1 , 37-39, 8 - 10 , 52-57, 11 , 

58-59, 66, 15, 69-70, 77, 87 

Crater of. 10 , 55-57 

Eruptions of. . . .53-55, 73-74, 136 

Vicenza.307 

Victor Emanuel.21-22, 167, 173 

Monument.(48, 176), 190 

Vietri.81 

Vinci, Leonardo da.314 

Visconti.310-311, 314, 318 

Gian Galeazzo.310, 315-316 

Visigoths.200 

Vitellius.127 

Vitiges.173 

Z 

Zama.28 


347 






















































































SEP £1 1903 







ARY OF CONGRESS fa 















































































































































